


he's just a man filled with pain

by dylovan



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylovan/pseuds/dylovan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Dethklok try to get back into the swing of normal life, the Hammer rises, and a dark secret in the Church unfolds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus doesn't even know what he is any more, but one thing is for sure: he doesn't like it.

Light. Brilliant white light that burned his good eye and made his bad one ache. With the light came searing pain that blinded him. It crescendoed, throbbing in his veins, making every inch of his skin want to peel itself free of his body to rid him from the pain, making every cell in his body scream. 

Light. He was drowning in it. He was burning in it. Hands were tearing into his chest, tearing into his eye. The rest of it was pretty bad, but God, the pain thrumming between his broken heart and his blind eye was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He wanted to be free. He tried to move his hands, wanting to claw at his own body, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed. Through the haze of pain he felt sweat break out on his fevered skin. Adrenaline surged through him. He needed to move. If he could just twitch a single finger he'd be ripped out of this horrible nightmare—

Images flashed through his eyes. A man with a silver face and deep scars channeling his bare chest. He stood tall as a mountain, inspiring fear. But he was dead. 

A half-man with flowing white hair, looming over him, expression unclear. Sparks jumped from his fingertips and lingered in that impenetrable eldritch gaze. 

Five still statues standing alone, beams of more sickeningly painful light shooting from their bodies, killing and leaving blood and destruction in their wake. But it was a good kind of destruction, like amputating a gangrenous limb. Behind them stood a slim figure both earthly and extraterrestrial—a demigoddess. 

A red star hung in the sky, portentous and pregnant with festering decay. It itched and burned his skin and made him sick, withdrawal-like frissons running through him. 

Behind the star, cloaked in shadows, a robot with shiny all-seeing eyes awaited. He was dead and yet not dead, and he seemed to phase in and out of reality at will. 

Last of all he saw a squirming, mewling maggot of a man, crouched on the ground like frightened vermin, begging for his life. He felt disgust and pity at this vision. The once-handsome face twisted into a parody of bravery when all that lay beneath was cowardice and treachery. This man was worse than a villain. He was someone who blindly followed whoever could best serve his needs, and they were unholy needs. 

He wanted to puke, not just because of the turmoil in his gut, but to rid himself of the vision of that man. 

One of this man's eyes was deep brown, nearly black; the other was pale and clouded over. His dark hair had been lustrous at some point but now it straggled down his back like vines climbing a wall, grey shot through at the temples. The deep crevices and high peaks of his face couldn't hide the rage, this mask wasn't strong enough for that. His wiry arms were spattered with constellations of needle tracks, fragments of a better time. A time before he'd met the man with the silver face. 

He wanted to kick this man in the teeth. 

The visions dispersed and were overcome by the bright white light again, and he wanted to writhe in pain. This white was the white of death and decay, pus leaking from wounds, pale cold skin, an avalanche of cold snow. 

Something broke. 

_malleo surgit malleo surgit disperdere fratres vestros_

His eyes snapped open. The white-haired old man was the first thing he saw, followed by their surroundings: empty boxes, abandoned tools, spiderwebs crawling in the corners against corrugated-steel walls. 

The white-haired man's lip curled, like it wanted to twitch up into a sneer. The man tossed him to the ground, and only then did he realize that he'd been gripping him by the neck. 

He fell to the ground, and took in a reedy breath. It felt like a paradise of pain. He breathed again and again, wiggled his fingers, curled his toes. The pain in his body faded, mostly hurting where he'd hit the ground on his tailbone, and in his left eye and his chest. 

"Magnus Hammersmith."

The memories came back. He curled up. It hurt just as much as the white light had. 

"Answer me, Hammer." Salacia's voice boomed. 

Magnus coughed. A sudden lurch wracked through him. He turned around and vomited on the stained concrete floor. Acid burned his throat and mouth as his stomach relinquished everything inside of him, which wasn't much except for vodka that burned even more coming up than it had going down. 

"Fuck," Magnus panted. His voice was cracked and his throat was dry. He needed a smoke. "Fuck..."

"Magnus Hammersmith, welcome to your second lease on life."

"What the fuck?!" Magnus lay flat on his back. The cold floor soothed the ache in his spine. He closed his eyes as his empty stomach churned. 

The Half-Man raised an eyebrow. He wasn't looking at Magnus directly, which seemed odd. He was wearing a plain black suit. In his visions, Magnus had seen him wearing armor of bleached bone, adorned with medallions. 

"I am Mister Salacia..."

"I know who you are," Magnus said quietly. "I've heard the legends." 

Salacia's thin lips curved into a dry smile. "I see."

"Why are you doing this?" Magnus groaned.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand..."

"Why me? Why the fuck do you have to dig me outta the fuckin' ground where I belong and breath fuckin' zombie life shit into me? Why can't you let me die?"

He rolled over and pressed his face to the ground, which smelled faintly of piss. He faintly remembered long ago, being afraid of dying...waking up in the hospital surrounded by those four whose names he didn't want to speak, and the CFO... Time after time he'd get a panicked chill when he thought of how close to the edge he'd been, and time after time he'd swear off the drug that gave him life and dreams and hope. He always went back. It's hard to swear off hope. 

Now he didn't want anything except for the cold embrace of oblivion. He thought of all the wonderful ways he could die. Electric ecstasy coursing through his body, water pulling him down and silencing his cold struggles, the bittersweet blood tang of metal against his lips as he kissed the muzzle of the revolver he'd had to pawn off. He sank his teeth into his chapped lower lip and tasted his own blood. 

He pictured himself, a shivering and fragile badly aging junkie—well, ex-junkie—curled up like a dead bug on a dirty floor, at the mercy of the half-man's whims. He fucking hated himself so much right now. Weak, pathetic piece of shit, he berated himself. You couldn't kill yourself. You couldn't do it. Fucking coward. 

He patted his pockets down for his Swiss Army knife, needing to feel the blade against his skin, wanting to feel real. It was gone. He let out a defeated gasp. 

"We need you, Magnus Hammersmith."

Magnus opened the good eye and looked up at Salacia. Blood-tinged vomit was strung between his pale lips and matted into his dirty hair. 

"No you don't," he said. "No one needs me."

The half-man was still staring up at the ceiling. Magnus was puzzled—until he remembered something. 

The man with the silver face had told him about the dead man, the robot, how the half-man couldn't see him since his tether to the earthly realm had been severed and tied back together. Maybe this was the same thing. Maybe Salacia couldn't see him at all. 

"We need you to go back to the Church of the Black Klok," Salacia said. "Work your way into its foul heart. Find the blueprints of the Doomstar and bring them to me."

Magnus nearly said "Stars don't have blueprints, idiot," but the snarky voice inside his head had long since been beaten down, so he just moaned "Why?"

"You are the only one left."

"Kill me," Magnus breathed. "Please kill me. I don't want this. I can't stand it, it hurts so fucking much—agh!" 

The Half-Man had wound his fingers through Magnus' hair and jerked him to his feet. The pain in Magnus' scalp was excruciating, but it grounded him. 

"Oh, my dear Hammer." Salacia smirked at the ceiling, letting his shriveled face show a hint of emotion. "But that would be letting you off easy."

Something filled him, his blood burned like fire, his lungs screamed with every breath he could pull from the cold air. He was forced to his knees by some unseen force. Salacia's hand was clenched in the air. 

The pain ripped through him one final time before releasing him. He fell to the ground, his face landing in the puddle of vomit. He panted. 

He realized that his cock was completely hard and then shoved the thought out of his mind. 

"I promise you, there are worse things than self-hatred," Salacia murmured. "You wouldn't like me to show you."

Magnus shrugged, still stubborn. 

"I do not have much time left here, so I will say one thing. If you aren't in the Church of the Black Klok by midnight tomorrow, you will know a fate worse than death."

Magnus didn't doubt it.

"I could extend your life by hundreds of years. Make you see things that aren't there. Your skin will crawl with spiders, your teeth will fall from your mouth, your father will return—"

Magnus twitched. 

"Did that strike a nerve? Surely you love your father, Magnus. What kind of good boy doesn't love his father?"

Magnus didn't think he had any tears left in him, but they were coursing down his face now as the half-man's words tore open old infected wounds. 

"Fuck you," he whispered bitterly. 

They both knew that was a yes. 

The Half-Man smiled. For a moment, Magnus saw him glowing bright white, with that decorated bone armor. The sky was red above him, five planets encircling a repugnant red giant. 

Then he was gone. 

Fuck, Magnus thought. Fuck. How did this happen?

He hadn't meant for any of this to happen. One thing had just led to another. All he'd wanted to do was maybe cause those five fucking scumbags—beneath his feet, they were—a wee bit of pain. Especially Nathan. 

The dark fantasies that had got him through those years-gone nights of withdrawal bubbled up again, like something rotted floating in a fetid swamp. How he'd like to whip Nathan, tie him down and bring him pain. He wanted to watch Nathan bleed. The thought of it warmed him inside. How Nathan would suffer at Magnus' hands...

He was getting sidetracked. He didn't mean to get that man from the Church fridged. That wasn't his style. 

Fuck, he was in a mess. 

And it hurt. 

He banged his head against the ground. It felt good. He did it again. When his weak muscles couldn't take any more, he settled for punching the floor and screaming. 

He was having a tantrum, and he didn't care who knew, although he suspected he was in the middle of nowhere. 

He screamed his heart out, every ounce of agony pouring from his mouth, all those tightly-pent-up emotions slowly unraveling. When he finished his throat was raw and swollen and his head and hands hurt. He didn't care. 

He rolled over, jacked off, and then fell into a shallow sleep. The Church could wait. He still felt like he was dead.


	2. Toki's Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki has nightmares.

"Abigail?" 

Nathan woke up. He licked his dry lips and managed to force his eyes open. 

It was night; they were in Nathan's room. The huge bed with black sheets was occupied by the singer himself, and Abigail. 

Nathan sighed. Toki was standing in the doorway, clutching his Deddy Bear, face stained with tears and hair tangled. He looked like he was about twelve years old, despite his mustache. 

"Abigail?" Toki's high voice was hesitant. His lower lip trembled. 

Abigail woke up too. She looked over. Her hair was in a frizzy mess, drool sticking a bit of it to her cheek. Her makeup was smeared around her eyes. She sniffled. 

Damn, Nathan thought, getting lost in her ocean eyes. That's pretty hot. Brutal. 

He smiled. 

Abigail looked over at him and saw his stupid goofy grin and couldn't help but smile back. "What're you smirking about, doofus?"

"Uh, nothing. It's just, uh, you look really pretty. And stuff."

Nathan loved that look in her eyes as her emotions crossed over from sleepy friendliness to adoration. He bit his lip and smiled again. 

"No I don't," she whispered. 

Nathan nodded. He began having those feelings that he could never find words for. It was like his heart was exploding with the light of a thousand suns, and he wanted nothing more than to worship the woman in front of him. Maybe that wasn't very brutal, but no one was around to watch. 

She closed her eyes as she felt his warm, callused fingers brush her jaw. He gently pulled her closer and kissed her forehead, and she breathed in his dark scent and played with the edge of the black T-shirt he'd worn to bed. 

"Abigaillll!" Toki hissed. Nathan and Abigail both jumped. 

"What is it, Toki?" Abigail said gently. 

"Um..." The Norwegian tried to assemble a sentence, and hiccuped. "I was tryings to sleep, and, um...I has the bad dreams again."

"Oh, Toki." Abigail's voice sounded warm and comforting. "Come here."

Toki walked over in the dark. The bottoms of his blue satin pyjama pants dragged on the stone floor. He hopped into bed with Nathan and Abigail and snuggled up. 

"Ouuufghg," Nathan went as Toki's knee collided with his crotch. Toki smiled angelically up at him. Abigail's arms wrapped around the guitarist as she pulled him closer. "Little scamp," Nathan growled. 

Abigail looked down at Toki's big blue eyes, one of which was still slightly scarred. She cradled his head against her chest and he sighed in contentment. 

Nathan watched. He'd long since stopped being jealous of Toki and Abigail's relationship. It was more like a mother and son than anything else, even Nathan could see that. 

Toki never told anyone except Abigail about his nightmares. Nathan wondered if they were anything like his own, but he had a feeling they were a bit more personal. 

Anyway, at first when they'd rescued Toki he'd had the nightmares once or even twice every night, but now they were down to a couple a week. Nathan was proud of the little trooper, even if he wouldn't admit it. 

He knew Abigail had nightmares too. When this happened he'd hold her until she stopped crying and shaking; no words, just the warmth of their bodies together as Nathan brushed her hair from her face. She'd fall asleep with her face pressed to his chest, still and quiet at last. 

He didn't know how anyone could be so strong and yet so fragile...

"Sings me the lullabies, Abigail?" Toki whispered. 

Abigail played with Toki's hair. "Of course."

Nathan lay back and smiled as she started singing. He'd been hoping Toki would ask that. Usually he liked black metal; brutal drumlines pounding your eardrums, guitar riffs numbing your mind, basslines lecherously quick and hard. This was nearly the opposite, just Abigail's clear, pure voice against the stark backdrop of the quiet night. But he loved it. 

She had such a beautiful voice. And the lullaby itself was pretty brutal. He'd always wanted to ask her if they could do a cover, but it seemed too private. 

He sighed as she finished singing. There was something so sexy about a girl who could sing about blood and guts and have it sound that beautiful. 

"...remember the finest moments in your life...it's your power and your strength...your happy place. Go there now."

He yawned and stretched. Toki was curled up beside him, but at least he wasn't kicking him tonight. He raised his head and started to say something, but stopped when seeing the two. Abigail and Toki had fallen asleep already, Toki's head resting in the crook of Abigail's neck, Abigail's slim fingers in Toki's messy hair. 

Nathan smiled and lay back down. He supposed that they were his family.


	3. Takin' It (Un)Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murderface contemplates life.

Murderface had been losing time. 

Ever since that fatal night in the Depths of Humanity, it had started just with seconds here, minutes there. He'd end up in rooms with no idea how he got there, or be stuck in a meeting with the band and not know what they were talking about. 

These things in themselves weren't actually out of the ordinary. William Murderface had never paid much attention to the world around him. While other men struggled to find their way around in the dark hedge maze of adult life, Murderface doused the hedge maze with gasoline, burned it to the ground, pissed on its remains, and sauntered right through. It was just his modus operandi. 

But now chunks of his life were disappearing and there was nothing he could do about it. It confused him. True, most things confused him, but this had a dark tinge to it. 

Soon he started waking up in the morning unsatisfied with his sleep, dark circles ringing his eyes, mysterious aches in his body. His wrist hurt after these episodes. He thought maybe it was carpal tunnel syndrome again, but the pain was different. Sharper. Hotter. 

Before the only missing time he'd had was whatever happened between Friday afternoon and Saturday morning, back in the good old days when he'd wake up on a couch beside Pickles, Skwisgaar, and a whole lot of sluts, the air smelling like weed and booze and puke. That was pleasant, despite the hangovers. 

This was just shitty. 

Oh well.

William Murderface rolled out of bed, ignoring the pain in his wrist and the itching in his chest. He walked past the Iron Maiden, past the Judas Cradle, past the rack. He found himself in the bathroom. 

He examined himself in the mirror, yawning, picking his teeth and combing his fingers through his frizzy hair to get out any debris. He pulled a bottle of gin out from under the sink and gargled with it. He scratched his balls. 

"I hate you," he said to the mirror, just like he did every morning. It was a comforting routine. He smelled his armpit and decided he could go one more day without showering. 

"Put a schirt on, weirdo, no one wantsch to schee that," he replied to himself. 

He stumbled to the closet and pulled out his favorite T-shirt, then stared at it in shock. The T-shirt was ripped and covered in strange grease spots and what looked like blood. 

He didn't remember this. 

He swore and picked out a different shirt. He was going to get to the bottom of this. 

His gaze strayed to the bathroom where he'd left his gin...Maybe first he'd get to the bottom of that bottle. 

By the time he'd made his way downstairs he was totally hammered. He found the kitchen. 

Toki and Abigail were trying to cook. Toki's strange foreign food was pretty hit-or-miss, but this didn't seem to smell like rotten fish, so Murderface figured he'd eat it. Abigail had never learned how to cook, but was eager to try. 

Skwisgaar was sitting at the table, noodling around on his guitar as usual. Pickles appeared only a bit buzzed, and was adding more sugar to his latte while trying (badly) to hide something under the table. Murderface wondered what it was. 

Nathan was sitting by himself. There was a weird look on his face as he watched Abigail. It was so strange. The corners of his mouth were pointing up. His eyes were crinkling. 

A smile, Murderface realized, nearly gasping out loud. 

Nathan was acting kinda weird lately...

Murderface's train of thought was interrupted by a strange smell. He turned around. 

Toki was adding lutefisk to his scrambled eggs. 

"Oh, groshsh," Murderface whispered before he felt the inevitable gagging. He tried to keep it down. 

Toki slowly raised the scrambled eggs and lutefisk to his mouth. Murderface winced. Toki took a big bite and smacked his lips loudly as he chewed the sticky, moist mixture. 

"Mm!" Toki said. "Dat's goods! You wants some, Skwisgaar?"

Skwisgaar looked up. "Oh. Yes. Brings it to me with some oranges juice, okay?" 

"Comin's up!" 

Murderface tried to distract himself from the smell. He looked around. Nathan was still staring...ew. Pickles was fondling something under the table. It looked like...no, William, don't think about that. Dont think about his dick. Don't think about him jackin' it under the table...

Skwisgaar ate some of the scrambled eggs and lutefisk. "Oh, das goods, Toki," he yelled. "Maybe you ams not so dildoes cook after all. You's good for somesthing." Skwisgaar was right next to Murderface, breathing warm smelly air in his face. He chewed his food obnoxiously loudly and took a loud slurp of "oranges juice." He backwashed almost all of the food into the juice. Bits of debris floated in the sickly orange stew. Murderface felt bile rise in his throat. 

"What's you lookin's at?" Skwisgaar demanded of Murderface, talking with his mouth full of food. 

This was the last straw. Murderface felt alcohol and chunks of food swim up his esophagus. He opened his mouth and horked and gagged over the table and then threw up on Skwisgaar, filling his blond locks with partly-digested salmon steak and caviar and Velveeta Shells. 

"EWWW!" Skwisgaar yelled. He threw up too. It smelled like rotten fish and it made William puke even more. 

"This is quite the interesting concoction, Toki..." Abigail was saying as she looked down at her plate and walked into the room. "I—What the fuck?!"

Murderface slipped in some puke and fell over, throwing his arms up and exposing his noxious B.O. to the world. Abigail gagged and then blew chunks all over Murderface's last clean shirt. 

A small fuzzy brown thing ran through the room, followed by Pickles, who was running wildly and yelling "My tarantuler! My tarantuler escaped!" 

"Oh my fucks!" Skwisgaar yelled. "I don'ts like spiders! Where ams the talantura?!"

Toki ran through the room, screaming as a Mexican Red-Kneed Tarantula attempted to mate with his mustache. He ran into Skwisgaar. The spider leapt onto the lead guitarist, who screamed shrilly. 

"Give 'im back!" Pickles yelled, running back into the room. "Stop tryin' to kidnap my baby!"

"EUGHUESHEUH," Skwisgaar mused. 

Nathan entered the room. Everyone went still, even the tarantula. 

Nathan surveyed the destruction. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and withdrew...the voice recorder. 

"New song idea," he growled. "Tarantula Puke."

Everyone exhaled with relief. A Klokateer entered to try and help clean up the mess. 

"Murderface, what the fuck?" Nathan said. 

"What?!"

"You...you made my amazing brutal girlfriend lady puke! That's just, uh, ignorant!"

"MADE her PUKE?" Murderface said. "Made HER puke? She puked on me! What about my feelingsh?!"

Pickles shook his head at Murderface, a smug little smirk on his face. He was petting his tarantula. "Naht cool, dood. Tossin' yer cookies all over a byootifal wemmin like dat. You should be ashamed."

"Yeah!" Toki and Skwisgaar went. "Shames on you, Moidaface!"

"I'm sorry," Abigail said. 

Everyone stared at her. 

"I didn't mean to puke on you. That was kind of rude." A snicker bubbled up from inside her. "But it was kinda funny. You shoulda seen the look on your face."

Contrary to popular belief, Murderface could laugh at himself. He didn't mind. 

Everyone went back to what they were doing. Skwisgaar started washing the vomit out of his long hair while muttering garbled Swedish-English swears. 

"Um, Murderface," Nathan said quietly. "Uh. I don't know how to put this, but, uh, you have been doing a lot of daytime drinking lately."

"Pishsh off," Murderface grunted. "I thshought we didn't interfere withsh each other'sh perschonal livesch."

"Yeah, but. Uh. I think maybe you should hold off a little bit. Like, it's not even 11, on a perfectly good...uh...Wednesday, yeah, and you're drunk."

"Schtop it! I don't need you questschioning me! What do you even care?"

"I, uh, do care...Don't look at me like that. Things have changed a lot. I'm trying to work it all out."

"Damn straight." 

There was a gust of cold wind from outside. Everyone turned. Charles Foster Ofdensen stood in the dining room doorway, cloaked in his official Church robes. 

"Charles!" Toki jumped into Charles' arms and squeaked. "I misseds you!"

"I was here last night, Toki," Charles said gently. 

"I know." Toki looked down. "But I still misses you."

"I miss you too." Charles returned Toki's hug. "What...what happened in here, exactly?" He wrinkled his nose. 

"It's ams a longs story," Toki said. 

"I'm sure it is," Charles said. "Well, you can tell me all about it on the car ride to Dimmu Burger."

"We's goings to gets henkboigers!" Toki cheered. 

"Aw, Ofdensan, ya don't have to do dat," the drummer said. 

"I don't get to spend enough time with you all." Charles pulled off his robe. Underneath it he wore a smart pinstripe suit and a red tie. He ran a comb through his disheveled dark hair and straightened his lapels. He pulled out his Dethphone and checked himself in the front camera, examining his now perfectly coiffed hair, baring his teeth in a predatory smile. 

Ever since he'd found that single grey hair last month, he'd been working out, shaving every day, and dressing in even more of a dapper fashion than usual. He'd found two more greys since then. 

He had to admit, though, he looked pretty good in a suit. 

"Well, fellas, let's get ready," Charles said. "Er, Murderface, you might want to go look in the mirror. You got a little something, um, all over."

"No schit, Scherlock," Murderface grunted. He sighed and went upstairs again. 

Strangely enough, he did miss having the robot live here in Mordhaus. It was nice to have a guiding hand and a listening ear, even if the hand was a bit clammy and awkward, and the ear didn't know how to process problems like "I think I ate shome of Toki'sch airplane glue lasht night when I wasch tripping on mushroomsh, what do I do?"

Sure, CFO visited nearly every day, but it just wasn't the same...

Murderface sighed. And now he had to take a shower. This just wasn't his day.


	4. The Revengencers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred is alone. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit takes place a week or two before the rest of the story. Mordred is sort of an original character—he's going to be important.

Mordred hadn't fared well after the fall of the Revengencers. 

Edgar Jomfru had defected before their war with the Doomstar. That hasn't been so bad. Although he was the founder of the group, he was a smug, entitled asshole with bad breath. Mordred couldn't stand people with bad breath. When the wheelchair-ridden creep had fucked off the face of the earth, Mordred had heaved a heavy sigh of relief. He was tired of the fake smile he had to wear when following Jomfru's orders. 

Before Jomfru's departure there had come the metal-masked assassin. This seemed more pleasant. At least he didn't demand that you like him. If there was one thing Mordred hated, more than bad breath, it was wearing a mask in front of people. He supposed this was ironic, since the metal-masked assassin had the word mask right in his name and he was following this man, but he didn't care about irony. 

Then...then the silver-faced man had brought Magnus Hammersmith along. 

Back up came the mask, a literal one this time, a hood covering his face. Hammersmith and Mordred had...well...a past. This man couldn't know who he was. 

And he never found out. 

And now they were both dead. The leaders of the group, dead. The followers, dead. Succuboso Explosion, dead. The creepy teenager wearing the other Jomfru brother's (Mordred had forgotten the name) literal face had been killed as well. God knows where that smug bastard Edgar Jomfru was. 

It was just him, him and his booze, all alone against the world. Against the Doomstar. 

He sighed and stared down at the watery beer. He hated this bar. It had been a favorite hangout of the Revengencers and the only reason he ever came here was force of habit. 

He didn't need the mask any more. 

Mordred sighed and slowly pulled the hood of the cloak back. His pale face almost gleamed in the dim, seedy light. His face was sharp, with a high forehead, well-hewn cheekbones, and a slightly cleft chin hidden beneath a tasteful dark beard. His glossy black hair fell in curls about his shoulders. He ran one hand through his hair, callused fingertips smoothing night-soft locks behind his ears. His sleeve fell back, revealing a spiked leather bracelet. 

He shotgunned his drink. "Another."

The bartender obeyed silently. 

This was it. Mordred was tired of being walked all over for his whole life. By the Revengencers...his brother...Dethklok themselves. Mordred knew he was a leader. 

He didn't look up as he heard someone sit down beside him. The stool scraped the battered floor. 

"Can I help you?"

The newcomer answered in a vague Midwestern accent. He had short auburn hair and wore a shitty polo shirt under a tasteless sweater vest. "Hey, uh, what th'fuck d'you got on tap." 

"Budweiser, Molson, Rolling Rock. A few local ones."

The new guy digested this. "Uh. Get me a fuckin' gin 'n tonic."

The bartender did, wordlessly. 

Mordred could feel the man's sharp jade eyes on him. He smirked into his drink. 

"When does the Klok last tick?" Mordred whispered. 

The green-eyed man nearly choked on his drink, but managed to get it down. "...At midnight, the blackest hour," he replied. 

"Come with me."

Mordred nodded at the bartender and went up a case of stairs, away from the prying eyes of the regular jackoffs. He walked quietly into a room that was rather dark, and empty but for a cot and a couple orange crates. He motioned the green-eyed man in and shut the door, then locked it with a key he had around his neck. 

They sat down on the orange crates. 

"What do you fuckin' want?" the green-eyed man muttered. 

Mordred steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees. "Patience." He grinned as the man's hands clenched with anger. "I understand you're not too fond of Dethklok."

"Not too fuckin' fond?" the man hissed. "I fuckin' hate 'em. Hate their guts."

"They're your employers."

"Yeah, fuckin' barely. Hardly get paid fuckin' anything. I got a family to support." And a coke problem, but he didn't mention that. 

"Would you say that you resent them?"

"Oh, fuckin' boy, do I ever." God, he could picture his little brother's smug stupid face right now. How he'd like to grind that face beneath his heel...

"I need information," Mordred said. "And money. And it might be quite the risky business. But I can help you bring Dethklok to their knees."

"Fuck yeah, where do I sign up?"

Mordred smiled. "I have a feeling we're going to get along just fine. I'm Mordred, by the way."

"Sweet. I'm Seth. Seth an Drumadóir."

"Is that Scottish?" 

"Fuckin' Irish, actually." Seth shook Mordred's hand. Mordred was careful not to touch the bracelet to the other man's skin; Seth didn't notice. 

"Let's go." Mordred stood up and threw the hood back over his face. It was getting dark out. Mordred liked the dark. 

"Where we goin'?" Seth followed suit. 

"To the Church of the Black Klok."


	5. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus gets ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably best read while listened to "Hammer To Fall" by Queen. Also: I am so very very sorry.

Magnus felt physically okay, at last. 

He'd found a black messenger bag with a gear logo on it in the warehouse. He supposed this was Salacia's idea of a joke. 

The bag had contained a bottle of brandy, Advil, water, matches, and a pack of smokes—and Magnus' knife. 

He examined the knife in the dark of the abandoned warehouse. He'd always had a tendency to get attached to objects—his guitar, his revolver, now his knife. He remembered the way it had pierced the small brown-haired rhythm guitarist's side, how it had slid in, softly parting flesh and bone with a lover's touch, how the hot, thick blood had dripped down over his fingers. He remembered licking the knife clean, lapping the blood off his fingers while the metal-masked assassin drove and the two unconscious figures lay in the back seat. He didn't think he'd tasted anything that good in forever. 

Thoughts of suicide driven from the dark recesses of his mind, Magnus licked up the full length of the Bowie knife. He closed his eyes and felt the blade slit his tongue. Blood pooled in his mouth and a shiver ran down his back at the beautiful salt-metallic taste and the pain. He smiled and wrapped the knife up in a discarded rag and thrust it back in the messenger bag. 

In his pockets were his wallet (all the credit cards were gone) and the Swiss Army knife and a bunch of keys. Keys to his old apartment, keys to the Camaro that seemed to belong to a different life, spare keys to Toki's and Abigail's chains. He tossed Abigail's key over his shoulder, but kept Toki's. 

He stared at it as it glinted in the afternoon sunlight. He remembered threatening Toki as he lay bleeding on the ground like an injured dog. Threatening to withhold his food, his water, his insulin. Abigail would get mad at him, spaz out, but he'd ignore the bitch or silence her with a kick to the chest. Toki would tremble and Magnus would long to feel Toki's neck between his hands, his fingers gently caressing the sensitive skin before he choked the boy to unconsciousness. He'd crave Toki feebly pushing him away, his struggles growing weaker and weaker until he was still. Then he would wake back up and they could do it all over again. 

The man with the silver face said no to that, though. It was too close to death. 

Sometimes Magnus could get a little carried away. He never really wanted to kill anyone, except maybe himself most of the time. But it was good to be controlled, even if he felt angry about it all the time. He missed that feeling. 

He remembered the night when he'd sewed up the deep gash in Toki's side. He'd been in a state of mania that night, gleefully thrusting the needle in and pulling it out, in and out. It drew fresh blood. I'm only helping you, Toki, he'd cooed to the boy. I'm helping you get better. Magnus only wants the best for his little Toki. Sometimes bad boys need a little discipline, but you know I love you. I love you so much. 

It was too soon for Magnus to get hard again but he kept focusing on that night as he gathered his wits, popped a couple painkillers and drank some water and enough booze to kill the sharp edges of being alive. This wasn't so bad. He had a smoke. 

By the time he finished roughly stitching Toki's wound he'd had a massive erection. He'd pressed it gently into Toki's back as he knelt behind him, pulling his hair and whispering bitter nothings to him. 

He looked down at the boy's blind eyes, his dry parted lips, and he hadn't been able to resist. He had so much power. He felt alive. He wanted this to last as long as possible. 

He'd stripped the guitarist naked and watched him shiver in the cold. The scars roping across his back were like faint memories of punishment. Magnus wondered who'd gotten to the boy before he had. He felt jealous. He wanted to be Toki's first. 

Then he'd pushed him down to the ground until his face pushed against the rough gravel, freed himself and entered him with one quick thrust. Toki had screamed so loud, with so much pain, like a sick animal being shot. He was dry and tight and his muscles spasmed around the unwanted invasion. 

Abigail had screamed too, like she would never stop. Eventually it made Magnus bored. He shouted at her to shut the fuck up, or else she'd get it too. This made her quiet, although he could hear her sobbing. It was annoying and pathetic. It did feel good to cause so much pain at once, though. 

Eventually Toki gave up and stopped screaming, although he still shook like a dead leaf in the wind with every tiny movement Magnus made. Tears trickled down his face. Magnus leaned forward and wiped Toki's face dry. With the same hand he reached around and took Toki's cock. The boy was hard already. Magnus grinned. 

He played through all the lash marks on Toki's back that he'd traced with his knife, parting scar tissue, blood red as poppies dripping down Toki's pale, grubby skin. He hadn't been able to control himself from bending to rasp the wounds clean with his tongue. Toki had leaned into the gentle touch. 

Back to the present. Magnus could walk steadily now. He took a leak, although it was hard to aim with the massive erection he was sporting. 

After that night, he remembered that he'd forced Abigail to suck him off. At first the stubborn bitch wouldn't do it. He threatened her with his lovely knife, his best friend, and she wouldn't budge. He had to threaten the unresponsive Toki before she would give in. 

He'd forced it into her throat until she gagged; harder and deeper until she couldn't breathe. When he came he'd moaned out "Daddy..." This pissed him off to no end. Fucking bitch, making him do that. He'd knocked her out with a quick kick to the head and stormed away, leaving Toki mostly untouched for that day.

In the warehouse, he smelled his own stale vomit, cigarette smoke, and piss as he jerked himself off to completion, shifting his body restlessly. As he spilled his seed he put the cigarette out against the inside of his elbow. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. 

Fuck. He couldn't believe he'd just done that. He'd just pleasured himself to Toki's pain. Again. 

He didn't even want to hurt Toki any more. The poor guy had trusted him. Sure, it was a really fucking stupid thing to do, trusting Magnus Hammersmith. But was Magnus really that much of a psycho?

He took a drink and smiled sloppily. Yes. He was. 

"Psycho," he whispered to himself. "Insane. Sociopathic. Fucked in the head." He chuckled, voice rich and raspy with smoke and pain and pleasure. 

He yawned, getting an unpleasant whiff of his own sweat, and cleaned himself up as much as he could be bothered to. He stood unsteadily, the world wavering in front of him. He still fucking hated himself. But he hated everyone else almost as much. 

Time to go out and fuck the world in the ass. 

He clutched his Bowie knife inside his bag, and stepped outside.


	6. The High Priest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CFO takes the boys out for lunch and tries to maintain equilibrium.

The Dethbus pulled up to the Dimmu Burger drive-thru, totaling the height clearance sign. 

"Alright," said a Klokateer. "So. Three Sacrilege Burgers, two Stormblåst combos, nine tacos, and five milkshakes with extra blood sauce."

"Yep," Nathan said cheerfully. He looked around at the rest of the band. "So, what'll you guys all be having?"

Abigail blew a raspberry at Nathan. He had the worst sense of humor. 

With a good-natured roll of his eyes, Charles Foster Ofdensen recalled why he'd never taken the band out to eat much. Nathan would eat enough in one day to feed an entire family for a week. He'd always defensively said that it all went to his muscles. Frankly, Ofdensen didn't see the need for the defensiveness. He was surprised Nathan didn't weigh 700 pounds. 

"Hut!" Pickles and Murderface were playing tackle football with one of their Dethphones. It was difficult to play football with only two people, but they found a way. 

The lead guitarist was telling the Klokateer what to order. "...And I wants two slushsies and a popscockle."

"Sir, I'm afraid they don't carry yak burgers at this chain," said the Klokateer meekly. 

Pickles went long to catch the phone. Too long. He tripped and fell in Skwisgaar's lap. Skwisgaar gave him the Glare. 

Skwisgaar's Glare was scary. The contempt in his pouty lips and the sarcasm in his charming blue eyes seemed to sum up everything he was as a person.

Pickles gave the Swede a sheepish, crooked grin. "Uh...hello, sailor."

"Gets off of me, dildo!" Skwisgaar snapped, shoving the drummer away. "You ams ruining my order! Now I can'ts rebember how many slushsies I want!" He picked the Dethphone up and chucked it at Murderface angrily. The bassist missed. The Dethphone stabbed the Klokateer in the face. Blood sprayed all over the inside of the bus. The black-hooded figure toppled over at Toki's feet. 

Toki pulled a death bell out of his pocket and rang it. 

"Brutal," Nathan growled approvingly. 

"Oh, wells. He was a dildoes, anywho," Skwisgaar said dismissively. 

"Charles, I think we should go into the building to eat," Abigail suggested. "Let's let everyone order for themselves. It'll be less confusing."

"That's probably a good idea," said Charles. "Alright. Does anyone know how to parallel park this thing?"

Five minutes and three fender benders later, Dethklok, Abigail, and Charles trooped into the Dimmu Burger. They all ordered their food and went to sit down. 

Charles, Abigail, Nathan, and Pickles had one table; Toki, Murderface, and Skwisgaar had another one right next to it. Charles started getting up to carry the food to their table from the counter. 

"A little help would be nice," Charles said as he carried three trays to the guitarists' table. 

"Yeah, wells, some cocaines and sluts would am be nice, but you can'ts always gets what you want," said Skwisgaar. 

"Ooh, burn," Pickles hooted. He hi-fived Skwisgaar from across the aisle. 

Charles got a couple more trays. "Nathan, notice how I'm carrying your four trays for food all by myself," he said. 

"Shut up! I have to keep my sugars up!" Nathan yelled. 

Charles sighed and rolled his eyes. He almost wanted to say "I don't have to be here, you know" but that would just be rude. 

He sat down and poked his salad with a plastic fork. 

"Hey, look, Charle is eatings de food of rabbits," Skwisgaar teased.

Charles rolled his eyes. There was a lot of eye-rolling going on today, it seemed. 

"What are you, anorexshic all of a shudden?" Murderface asked, eyebrows quirked as he raised a pumpkin spice latte to his mouth. 

"No, I just like eating healthy," Charles said, his voice a bit strained. 

"Oh my god, it ish anorexshia," Murderface said. "Look at Mishter Pay-attention-to-me over here. Ooh, I'm anorexshic. Well, I can be anorexshic too! You juscht watch me!"

"Murderface, there's no anorexia, okay?" Charles said. "I'm perfectly healthy. Look, this salad has all my macromolecules—" 

"Real women have curves! Bones are for dogs!" Pickles (who was quite drunk) yelled. 

"I concurs," said Skwisgaar. 

"What about Toki, guys?" Charles said, exasperated. "He's eating a salad. Aren't you going to ask him about his anorexia?"

"Dood, Toki has diabetes. Don't be a douche!" Pickles said. 

"Yeah!" Skwisgaar said. "Ableist scum dildo!"

Ofdensen pinched the bridge of his nose. He glanced up at Abigail, who was giggling and trying to hide it behind Nathan's shoulder. "You're not gonna help me, are you," he sighed to Abigail. 

She shook her head. 

"Uh...yeah." Charles sighed and took a bite of his salad. 

Eventually, the conversation turned away from Charles' eating habits and Skwisgaar started fretting on his guitar. This was because of Pickles' tarantula. 

The spider was crawling over Pickles' hands. Toki was grossed out at first, but he saw that Pickles wasn't afraid, so he petted the tarantula. He smiled. "It feels fuzzy. What's it's name?"

Pickles pursed his lips and played with a single crusty dread. "Uh...I'm namin' her 'My Dick.'" 

Toki giggled. "Pickle, why?"

"Cos. Then I can say, uh. Pet My Dick, it's fuzzy. Don't be afraid, My Dick won't bite you. Although she is venomous."

Toki laughed loudly. "Um, Pickle. Can I hold My Dick?"

"Sure. Just be careful with My Dick. She's fragile."

They both snickered as the furry arthropod crawled over Toki's slim hands. 

"Guysh, you're sho fuckin' gay," Murderface said. 

"Yous just jealous," Toki said. 

"I am not! I can hold My Dick if I want to, I jusht don't need to 'cosh I'm not ash immature ash you guysch!"

"You can't touch My Dick," Pickles said, taking the spider back. 

"I could if I wanted to!"

"Murderface, I'm not lettin' you touch My Dick!"

"Why not?"

"Cos you said I was gay," Pickles said. "Take it back. Say I'm not gay and then I'll let you hold My Dick."

"Fine! You're not gay! Now gimme!"

"Nah, first, give me the tomato off your burger so's I can feed it ta My Dick. She likes tomatoes."

"Fine." Murderface gave Pickles the tomato slice. He petted the spider and gave it a little gap-toothed smile. He supposed he was kind of like a spider. Lonely, hairy, misunderstood, eats bugs. 

Meanwhile, Abigail had nearly finished her food. "Hey, Nathan," she said. 

"Yeah?"

"How come we say 'I'm down for that' and 'I'm up for that' and they both mean the exact same thing?" said Abigail. 

"Uh, I dunno." Nathan thought. "Hey, how come 'flammable' and 'inflammable' mean the same thing, too?"

"English ams a stupid langooge," Sksisgaar said. 

"It kind of is. You can write some pretty brutal lyrics with it, though."

"That ams true. However, you do not needs to speak any langooge to understand the speech of guitar," said Skwisgaar.

"Yes," Toki piped up. "It trans-cends culturals barriers. This is the powers of music."

"Well speaken, my friend," said Skwisgaar. 

Nathan saw that Abigail had some vanilla milkshake on the tip of her nose. He leaned forward and licked it off. She laughed and batted playfully at him. Everyone at the two tables was really grossed out. 

"You look really cute with your hair down like that," Nathan told her. 

"Well..." Abigail fumbled in her purse and found a scrunchie. She pulled Nathan's silky black hair into a messy bun. "You look really cute with your hair up like that." She kissed his nose.

"Ew," Skwisgaar whispered. "Pickle, what am they doing?"

Pickles narrowed his eyes. "I think...they're in love."

Skwisgaar gagged. 

"No, you're the cutest!"

"No, you!"

"No, you!"

Abigail dipped her finger in the milkshake and Nathan licked it clean. 

"I can't take this any—BLARGHHH!" Pickles puked all over the table. 

They decided to leave before anyone saw the puke. Charles drove, since the lone Kloketeer had been slaughtered. 

As he drove, keeping his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel, he thought about how important this band—his band—really was. He wondered what they'd do if they knew. 

And it was up to him to make sure they didn't find out.


	7. FalconBack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth and Mordred get lunch, too.

Mordred was in his bedroom in the shitty apartment he and Seth shared. He scrolled through a document on his laptop. 

It had been ridiculously easy to convince Seth to temporarily abandon his job and family. He would do anything to get back at his brother, although Mordred didn't think he was very dedicated to his job or his family. 

He was on the phone out in the main room, while Mordred organized the files that documented a little something called the FalconBack Project. 

"I don't fuckin' care what you think, okay? That fuckin' kid is not turning out fuckin' queer like my little brother!...I can talk like that in front of the kid if I want to! No, I won't tone my voice down. You tone your fuckin' voice down, bitch!" He waited for a moment, then growled and chucked the phone at the wall. "Fuckin' bitch hung up on me! Can you believe that, Morty? Hah?"

"Don't throw things at the wall. We don't own this place," Mordred said. 

"Ughhhh, fuck," Seth grunted. "I need a fuckin' drink."

"It'll all be over soon," Mordred said. "Be patient." 

Seth steeled himself and nodded. "Yeah." A dark version of his brother's crooked grin spread over his face. 

"So, I have all the plans organized, d'you wanna see or no?"

"Sure, I guess." Seth rummaged in the nearly-empty cupboard and pulled out a bottle of twelve-dollar wine, and started chugging it as he went to Mordred's bedroom. He always drank after phone calls. 

They looked through the plans and photos quietly, mentally checking off what they'd finished already. 

"Pretty fuckin' solid." Seth's Wisconson accent had a bit of a subtle Australian flavor added to it. The result was a nearly-incomprehensible mess of sound. 

"I suppose you could put it like that." Magnus closed the laptop and put it back in the safe under his bed where it belonged. 

"Where we gonna fuckin' go now?" Seth asked. 

"I'm kinda hungry. We could go grab a coffee. Or we could try to check up on—" he whispered this "—the Church. But it would be better to wait until dark to infiltrate, as you know. We can't be caught."

Seth nodded. "Well, let's grab you a fuckin' coffee." 

They grabbed their jackets. Mordred put his hood on.

"Hey," Seth said. "Why do you wear that all the time?"

"What? The hood?"

Seth nodded. 

"In case anyone sees me. If anyone recognizes me, all our efforts could be for nothing."

"Man, what did you do that was so fuckin' bad that you have to hide all the time?"

They had agreed not to talk about their pasts. But agreements could change. 

Sure, Seth was brash, tactless, a bit of a douche. But he was Mordred's partner in crime, and the only real friend he'd had in a long time. Maybe he could share.

"It's a long story," Mordred said, averting his eyes. He'd never liked talking about himself much. 

"Well, uh, you should tell me, y'know? And...and why do you even hate Dethklok? You don't really seem connected to them."

"I guess I should tell you." Mordred pulled the hood down, gathered his hair out of the way, and turned around. Seth gasped audibly. 

"You're...you were..."

"I was a Klokateer." Mordred smiled humorlessly, pointed teeth glinting. He let his hair flow back over the ugly gear tattoo on the back of his neck, and put his hood back on so he could hide in darkness. "Now, I bet you've never seen a Klokateer away from Dethklok. That's because we aren't supposed to leave. Ever. It's a lifelong commitment. But, well...I have commitment issues. I escaped and followed Edgar Jomfru of the Revengencers. His ideas seemed to liberate me. To this day I don't know how I escaped without getting shot or blown up or ripped to pieces by yard wolves. 

"But I don't know if it was even worth it. I just traded one mask of anonymity for another. If they ever find me they'll kill me, or find something worse. The penalty for betraying Dethklok is enormous. I guess at least now I'm free."

"Fuck." Seth stared in awe. 

Mordred nodded. "I assume you just hate your brother."

"Yeah. He's a slimy little douchebag...always trying to get attention. I don't know why everyone can't see him for what he is—a talentless jackoff who stole his ideas from me!" Seth kicked the wall. 

"Careful there."

Seth grunted. Mordred smiled. They went out to the car and drove around to find a coffee shop. 

It was Seth's car, so Seth picked the music. It was mostly pretty lame stuff. Elton John, Phil Collins, maybe a bit of David Bowie if they were really lucky. 

Mordred shoved his earbuds in his ears and cranked up the Immortal. 

They found a Duncan Hills coffee shop and drove through. Seth got a sandwich and a latte. Mordred got a black coffee. Seth realized that he'd never seen the man eat. 

They drove back to the apartment. The afternoon sky was beautifully blue, and although it was chilly they had the heat cranked all the way up in the musty grey 1999 Kia Optima. It was a perfect day for revenge. 

Seth sipped his drink with one hand and took a bite of his sandwich with the other, steering with his left knee. He narrowly missed a lamppost, a fire hydrant, and a Dodge minivan. 

Mordred's forehead barely wrinkled as hot coffee slopped over the leg of his black cargo pants. Driving with Seth was always an adventure. 

"So. We finally headin' out to the fuckin' Church tonight." Seth said. His more serious questions mostly always sounded like statements, with that glib rapid-fire speech pattern of his, and it took Mordred a second to actually realize that he was inquiring about something. 

"Yes. I know you've been anxious to see it." Mordred smiled. 

Seth nodded curtly. He'd seen the inside of the Church in blurry pictures and videos, but he imagined it far more vividly. He wanted to wreak havoc in the Church; kill its followers, tear the Prophecy to shreds, hopefully even destroy the Klok itself. He'd never been one for foresight, which might've shown that these weren't exactly good decisions.

He especially wanted to hurt the High Priest. Charles Foster Ofdensen, the dead man, the robot, had now taken yet another position of authority. 

Seth was a jealous man, and the CFO was no exception to his jealousy. Seth could've been a way better manager than Charles. Then Seth would've ended up as a High Priest. Seth knew he was actually worthy of this, even though he wanted nothing to do with that shitty stupid Church...

Anyway, they weren't destroying anything tonight. They were just going to sit back and watch. 

The FalconBack Project's gears had been set in motion.


	8. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crozier feels a strange emptiness inside; so does Magnus, but the ex-guitarist is more used to this.

The Tribunal had long since given up on its regular meetings. The most contact General Crozier ever got from them was the occasional text message from the Senator updating him on Dethklok's whereabouts—nothing new had happened since the Doomstar incident; or one from Vater Orlaag wanting to know if he would go out to drink or watch the game. Crozier never responded positively to this. He preferred to keep his professional relationships exactly that—professional. 

He didn't see Salacia, except in those dreams. The dreams showing the strange ancient man in religious garb, dying in thousands of unimaginably terrifying ways...

Who was this man?

He'd wake up in a cold sweat, alone in real life when he'd been surrounded by demons in the night terrors. He was getting old and all his emotions seemed to have the dim haze of ages gone lying like fine dust over them, muting the bright colors and the pain. But these dreams made him feel like a child again, turning to his mother for comfort. Except his mother was dead. 

He was getting to that age where his loved ones started dying off like mayflies. He didn't mind as much as he thought he would've. He poured his life into the Tribunal. 

But the Tribunal was on its last legs; dying, if not a shambling zombie already. There had seemed to be something missing, ever since Orlaag had arrived; something Crozier couldn't quite put his crooked finger on. 

No matter. He had work to do. 

The FalconBack Project needed him. 

Crozier didn't quite get why Salacia had pawned the project off on him. Salacia didn't even seem to take a passing interest in the project. He didn't know the decisions Crozier had to make. Even if Salacia was too busy to supervise the Project himself, surely the Senator was more capable. 

But then again, Crozier thought bitterly, the Senator didn't have Salacia peering into his dreams every night. 

Crozier's cellphone vibrated. He checked it. Ah, yes. An update from Mordred, the hooded man. 

His fingers shook as they unlocked the phone; this was normal. He ignored it. 

"We're checking in on the Church tonight. FalconBack is coming along fine. We'll keep you updated."

He didn't smile so much as not frown as hard. Hiring Mordred had been a brilliant decision on his part. And Crozier didn't brag. 

The man seemed to know everyone, to have his fingers on the pulse of Dethklok. So what if he was mysterious, face always in shadow, seemingly without a past (the man didn't even have a birth certificate or Social Security number)? He was polite, kept secrets, and got the job done. 

General Crozier's phone buzzed again. "Oh, and Seth wants a raise."

Crozier wasn't too sure about Seth. He seemed flaky, petty, with an addictive and vindictive personality. But he had energy and information. Who better to figure out the schedule, habits, and weaknesses of Dethklok than one of the members' own brother?

Anyway, if Mordred trusted him, Crozier could as well. 

Crozier thought for a moment, fingers hovering over the keypad. "Tell him to get his ass to the Church first, then we'll see."

His phone buzzed furiously. It was a "hey fukc u man. stay in ur lane" from Seth. 

Crozier actually smiled.

~~~

Magnus' music tastes had always run a bit softer than the rest of Dethklok's. As he lay on the bed, dreaming and awake, he had the clock-radio on the bedside table tuned to 106.3 FM, his favorite radio local station. 

His left hand worked over the fretboard of the black Les Paul, forming the shapes of the chords that rang out from the radio. He sang along, eyes closed. 

"I've got electric light, and I've got second sight, got amazing...powers...of observation," the tall man drawled. 

"And that is how I know when I try to get through—on the telephone to you—there'll be nobody home."

He felt the music run through him, cold and twitching with static energy. He bit down on his lip. He thought a tear trickled down the crevice between eye and cheek. 

"...I've got a pair of Gohills boots, and I've got faded roots..."

He opened his eyes. 

It was dark. He wasn't on the bed, he was on the floor of Dethklok's old hangout, which had been condemned and now housed squatters and stray cats, in the bedroom he and Skwisgaar (damn the Swede) used to share. The clock-radio buzzed from the floor beside him, the shitty quality of the speaker almost making him want to turn the damn thing off. His voice wasn't mellow yet bitter, like a good cup of coffee (Nathan made the best coffee—fuck, shut up, don't think about those assholes), like he remembered it. It was gritty from years of smoking and he sounded tone-deaf. His fingers didn't stride across the strings nimbly, with lightning speed. They hesitated, aching from years of no practice at all. 

He didn't have the black Les Paul cradled in his arms. It was a shitty Squier that had once belonged to Toki. He swore and flung it across the room. It fell pitiably to the floor, denting it, machine heads snapping. Magnus felt instant sorrow, and crawled across the floor to the orphaned guitar as an ad for prescription socks played on the radio. 

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered as he picked the guitar back up. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He didn't know why he was doing this, why he was dredging up the corpse of his past dreams. He'd simply been drawn to the guitar. 

But he discovered why, as the next song started. 

He sat leaning against the wall, legs spread wide, guitar strangled in his hands and stroked by his pick. The evil riff rang out through the room, accompanied by Magnus' cheap Squier. 

"Take a mortal man, put him in control. Watch him become a god. Watch people's heads roll, roll, ah-roll..."

His eyes fell closed again as he tore through the chorus. 

"Just like the pied piper led rats through the streets," he grunted, "we dance like marionettes swaying to the symphony...of destruction."

Yes, now he remembered. It was just because it felt so good. The beauty of the guitar moaning as it was fucked into submission, the pain in his fingers as they brutally shredded the strings, fingernails ripping but he didn't give a shit. It felt good to be a god again. 

He found a strap for the guitar, found the cord and plugged it into a tiny amp, lit a ciggie. He took a drag from it as he resumed his persistent groping of the guitar's neck and body. 

"The Earth starts to rumble," he moaned, voice raspy and dark, "world powers fall. Warring for the heavens, a peaceful man stands tall...tall...tall..."

As he came into the chorus again he couldn't help but bounce up and down a bit, bang his head, long waves of black-coffee-colored hair brushing the guitar's curved body. 

When the song ended he let the final chord hang heavy and hot on the dusty air, clinging like the smell of sex. He panted. He opened his eyes. 

Two kids, a chavvy-looking guy and a girl in slutty clothes, were gawking in the doorless doorway of Skwisgaar's old room. They must've snuck in the same way Magnus had—through the broken basement window. He saw them...he could sense fear, somehow, like a foul yellow aura around their heads. He blinked. 

"Get out of here!" he growled. "Fuck off! Get the fuck out of my house!"

They ran wordlessly. 

Magnus dropped to the ground again with a sigh. He turned off the amp and turned the radio, which was now playing something smooth and sonorous in a I-V-III-IV chord progression, pretty much all the way down. 

He found his brandy in the bag. His stomach was still empty as the alcohol hit it once more. He sighed. 

He supposed he would have to find the Church soon.

He knew where it was. Beyond this place loomed Mordhaus, just visible on the horizon. No one knew Dethklok had lived here in their problematic childhood, and it was strange how busy Mordhaus was in comparison even with Dethklok's living quarters years ago, and much stranger now. 

And beyond Mordhaus, in the black water of the ocean, there was a partly-dormant volcano, forever spewing dark smoke into the air. The Church of the Black Klok lay beneath this volcano. 

Seemed simple enough. 

Yeah, he should get going. But first he wanted a shower. Being dead had not done his body odor any favors. 

He wandered upstairs, hoping against hope that the shower worked. Somehow it did. This place was a paradox. 

He let the water run until it got as clean as it was going to get. Steam slowly filled the mildewed bathroom. He stared at himself in the cracked mirror. 

He was wearing a plain grey hooded jacket. He pulled it off and stared at his own chest. 

Between his pectorals was a circle of steel and brass and crystal, polished to a smooth matte gleam. It was about five inches in diameter. He brushed his fingers over it; it was painless, nerveless. The edges where metal met skin were red and raw, but mostly healed. 

Inside the crystal he could see gears ticking and turning. 

He supposed that this was his heart. He pondered what a waste it was, using a beautiful prosthetic like this on a disgusting piece of shit like him. But was it really that beautiful? It kept him alive even though he longed for death. 

He thought about smashing the heart, tearing out gears, ripping out chains, fingers soaked in blood and engine oil. The thought sent a chill through his spine to the base of his cock. But Salacia would find a way to keep him alive. 

He shrugged off the jacket and his black button-down. The surface of the heart on his back was a circle made only of sandblasted steel, opaque. 

He stripped off his shoes and pants. He ran both hands down his body. Once he'd looked beautiful; wiry muscles, slightly curved body, supple skin. Now he was wretchedly skinny. The V of his hips was far too deep. His chest and pubic hair was tinged with grey. His abs had melted away and left the ribs beneath raw and naked. 

He frowned and stepped into the shower. He turned his face to the stream of water. It tasted like iron and sulfur in his open mouth. 

He would find the workings of the Doomstar and bring them to Salacia. Then, and only then, would he be granted his sweet release from life. He only hoped Salacia would have the grace to drag it out, let him suffer before untying the frayed knots in the thin red thread that tied him to this plane. He needed to suffer. He needed to be baptized in blood, redeemed. 

For now, water would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs Magnus plays along with are Nobody Home by Pink Floyd and Symphony of Destruction by Megadeth.


	9. Living in Mordhaus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles gets high as usual. Toki angsts over a board game.

Pickles the Drummer yawned, flung open the door to his room, stubbed his toe on the door, hopped around while shouting various choice swear words, and fell onto the unmade bed. Well, he'd got where he'd been meaning to go. 

He scowled and rubbed his foot while searching the drawers of the bedside table for something that would keep him alive. His hand brushed a bottle of Courvoiser, some unidentifiable white powder in a Ziploc bag, a couple roaches, a bottle of pills. The pills had belonged to Toki—the doctors had prescribed him a lot of medication after they'd rescued him from Magnus and the Assassin, and he never remembered to finish it. These were solely in case of emergencies. The drummer didn't really like how they made him feel, all cold and fuzzy and numb, but it was better than being sober. 

He tended to hoard anything that could give him even a slight buzz. There was a cardboard box of Gravol, NyQuil, and cigarettes under the bed. He wasn't sure why he kept all that stuff. He was goddamn Pickles the Drummer. There were probably loads of fans who could give him anything he wanted. 

One time, he'd actually stolen some of Toki's insulin to see if it had any effects. It didn't seem to do anything. He'd felt bad afterward and had taken the little bugger out to the state fair to ride the Ferris wheel. Toki still didn't know. 

Maybe he just kept all this shit in case of emergencies. Like, he couldn't imagine any situation in which he'd be trapped in his own bedroom with no means of escape for long enough to exhaust his supply of more effective drugs and booze, but it could happen, right?

Whistling to himself, he opened the baggie of unidentified white powder and spilled a bit onto the bedside table. He dropped to the floor and knelt before his altar. His hands wandered under the bed and pulled his wallet out. He found a Hot Topic gift card and used it to cut the powder into lines. 

"My name is Pickles, I like Don Rickles, hangin' out with Kony, playin' with a pony." He pulled out a thousand-dollar bill that had his own face on it. His practiced fingers rolled the bill into a tube. One end went to his nose and the other was pressed to the table. He snorted two lines and fell back against the bed, coughing furiously, blood dripping from his nose. 

"Fuck yeaaaaaah," he panted to no one in particular. God, he hated that stupid creepy clown who followed Toki around, but he could score him some terrific blow. His pupils dilated until they blacked out almost all of the green. His hands twitched and his leg bounced up and down impatiently as he shoved the bag of cocaine into the drawer. He slammed it shut, so hard that he knocked the lamp over. 

"Shit!" he grunted. He picked the lamp up and started smashing it against the wall for no reason in particular. 

"What the fuck?"

Pickles turned around. Murderface was in the doorway, arms crossed over his protruding stomach. 

"Heyy," Pickles said with a huge grin. "What's goin' on?"

"What'sh goin' on with you? What did that lamp do to descherve being brutally schlaughtered like that?"

"I don't like it," Pickles explained. "I never liked it. Stupid fuckin' douchebag lamp. Fuck!" He bashed the lamp against the wall again. Glass sprayed over him. 

"Your noshe ish bleeding."

"Mmh!" Pickles was still trying to kill the lamp. 

"Anywaysh, I came up here 'cosh Toki wantsch you to join ush for a game of Schcrabble. But I'm guesshing you're not in the mood." He rolled his eyes and went to leave. 

"Wait! No! I'll come! Hold on!" Pickles abandoned the lamp and scampered after Murderface, pulling on pants as he went. 

In the living room, Toki, Abigail, and Charles were sitting by a Scrabble board. Toki looked chipper and pleasant, but concerned with something. Abigail looked bored—she was playing Words With Friends on her Dethphone while playing Scrabble. Charles looked a bit fed up.

"Look, Toki, for the third time, you can't use your name as a word...and even if you could, you're spelling it wrong." Charles rubbed his temples. 

"Oh, Charles, you's always tryings to bringings me down!" Toki moaned. 

"Hey, Charlie boy, what are da haps?" Pickles jumped onto Charles' lap. His bony hips jabbed Charles painfully in the stomach. 

"Oof," said Charles. 

"What's goin' on, Charles? What are y'up to? Playin' Scrabble with yer boyfriend, eh?"

"Please don't bleed on me," Charles said. "I just got this suit dry-cleaned."

Pickles wiped his nose off on the back of his hand, smearing blood all over his face. It dripped into his ginger goatee and clung there. He tried to smile seductively at Abigail, raising one pierced eyebrow. Abigail sighed and shook her head. 

"It ams Pickle's turns now," Toki said. Charles pushed Pickles away and Toki gave him a little wooden stand for the letters.

Pickles couldn't concentrate on the letters. He grabbed some at random and threw them onto the board. 

Murderface squinted at the board. "Picklesh, you jusht schpelled KSJAL."

"Rad," said Pickles. 

Charles glared at Pickles. 

"Your turns, Moiderface," said Toki. 

Murderface contemplated his letters and managed to spell WANG.

"Man, all you ever think about is dick," Pickles said with a huge grin. 

"No it'sch not! It wash jusht the firsht thing I shaw!"

"Now, I dunno about you guys," Pickles said, "but I find dat...rather telling."

"What do you mean, tchelling?" Murderface growled, pulling a knife out of a sheath hidden under his shorts. 

"I dunno. It's just everywhere ya look, all ya see is penises. You might say it's a bit Froodian."

"Freudian," Charles corrected him, without thinking. 

"Gesundheit," Pickles said to Charles. 

"Oh, sho now you're tchurning on me, too?" Murderface said to the CFO. "God! No one hash any fuckin' empathy for the underdog! I can't even—"

"No, I just—"

"Murderface, get yer mind outta the—"

"Pickle!" Toki shrieked. "You givin' yours self a blowjobs!"

Pickles smiled maliciously, blood dripping down his neck and staining his shirt. "Oh, you wanna see that, do ya?"

By the time they had restrained Pickles from trying to contort himself into a position suitable for autofellatio, everyone had pretty much given up on playing scrabble with Toki. The little guitarist pouted and rested his face in his hands. 

The last time anyone had ever played Scrabble with him had been months ago. He remembered it vividly. He and Magnus had stayed late in the ex-guitarist's apartment, eating cheese and crackers and playing board games—

No. _Faen, nej_. He didn't want to think about Magnus now. He didn't need this. 

He sighed and closed his eyes. He was safe. He was with his family. His father Nathan and his mother Abigail and his uncle Charles and all his brothers. Magnus was dead. Magnus couldn't hurt him. 

It's so hard to cut someone out of your life when they've been there forever, apparently loving you. Toki knew Magnus had never really wanted to be his friend, but some part of him was still attached to the man, although he was dead. 

Toki got attached easily. This could be good, but it could also be bad, especially if you were Toki and everyone you loved ended up dying horribly or being a huge dick. 

Toki sighed. He was in a pretty stable mood today; he didn't see any anxiety attacks on the horizon. 

Magnus slowly crept back into his mind. 

He'd liked the ex-guitarist. A lot. He was different than any of the Dethklok members—introverted, thoughtful, eloquent. His emotions didn't show strongly, but whenever Toki initiated a smirk or a chuckle from Magnus, he felt incredibly rewarded. 

The man had been like, well, like a father to him. He had this ability to withhold praise until Toki bent over backward to please him, and Toki didn't know why. 

He guessed it was simply manipulation, but he hated thinking like that. 

To Toki, the Magnus who had saved his life at camp and the Magnus who had tortured him endlessly before the Doomstar appeared were two different people: one clever, reserved, and thoughtful; the other psychotic, manipulative, and sadistic. 

There was too much dissonance. He couldn't resolve the puzzle. 

His thoughts were interrupted by someone bursting into Mordhaus. It was Nathan. 

"Abigail," he said as a greeting. "I, uh, got you something."

Nathan held up a little shopping bag from a lingerie store. He looked ridiculous with the little black and pink bag in his huge hand, a goofy little smile on his face. 

"Ah," Abigail murmured. She jumped up, relieved to be taken away from Toki's game. Nathan watched her walk over. She wore a loose white blouse, black slacks, black leather pumps, and a necklace with a small blue pendant that accented her eyes. Nathan sighed; she looked stunningly beautiful. 

"What is it?" she asked, giving him a hug. Her arms rested on his broad shoulders and one of her feet rubbed against his calf. He felt her smile before she looked up into his eyes, and he had to look away because he felt like his head was going to explode. 

"Mm, you'll have to wait until tonight," Nathan murmured. She smirked and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. 

The group all watched them, with expressions varying from disgust to amusement. 

"Man," Pickles grunted. "Nate'n's bin goin' soft lately. What's with dat?"

"He'sh in love," Murderface grumbled. "It'sch fuckin' groshsh."

Pickles grimaced. 

"Now, guys, don't make a big deal out of it, okay?" Charles said quietly. "Let's just let them be. I'm sure they'd appreciate being left alone, they need some peace and—"

"Everybody!" Nathan shouted. "Look at my girlfriend!" He picked Abigail up and held her in the air. She shrieked and kicked a bit. 

"Nate, you big lunk, put me down!"

Murderface's face was a twisted display of confusion. "...Nate?"

Skwisgaar walked out of his bedroom, wearing a white dressing gown and fuzzy hawk slippers, naked chicks clinging to him. He yawned and dislodged the naked chicks, then scratched his ass. He stood beside Toki and they watched the couple. 

"Ah, youngs love," Skwisgaar sighed. 

"Dey makes such a cute couples!" said Toki. 

They both blinked at the spectacle. Nathan appeared to be trying to stick his tongue all the way down Abigail's digestive tract. Abigail grabbed Nathan's bum. 

"That's fuckings gross," the two Scandinavians said at once. 

"And what ams yous doing?" Skwisgaar asked Toki. "Playin's Scrobble? Ha. That's lame."

"No, it's fun," Toki murmured. But he guessed no one would play with him, so he started cleaning up all the letters. He looked miserable. 

Skwisgaar looked around. Everyone seemed to be occupied, gawking at Nathan and Abigail. Skwisgaar knelt down beside the younger guitarist and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

"Little dildohead," he said gently. "What ams wrong?"

"Um...nothings." Toki averted his eyes. 

"Oh, come on, don't does this to mes. I knows you're bein' a whiny baby about somesthing, so just tells me what it is, okay?"

"Well..." Toki looked up into his brother's eyes. "It just remindeds me of, um, of when Magnus and me useds to play games togethers."

Skwisgaar frowned. Internally, he was fuming. 

_Knulla Magnus_. Stupid arrogant asshole. First he almost ruins the band, now he's still ruining little Toki, even from his grave. 

Skwisgaar clenched his fists. If only he could bring Magnus back to life, just to pummel him. He wanted Magnus to suffer...

"Is okay." Toki laid a hand on Skwisgaar's shoulder. "Besides, we learneds getting revenge ain't right, right?"

"Ja." Skwisgaar sighed and sat down. "Hey. I'll plays the Scrobble with you, if you ams wanting dat."

"That's okay, Skwisgaar." Toki managed a smile. "Besides, you was nevers de best at Scrobble."

"Oh, are you kiddings me? I'm de bestest. I was ams whoopin' everyone's asses backs in Sweden."

Toki laughed. "Sure."

"Ja, it's true!..."

And Toki knew that, even though he didn't have Magnus—he never had in the first place—he'd always have his family. Dethklok were his real family. And that was what really mattered.


	10. Sleepwalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The FalconBack Project marches on, to the detriment of poor Murderface.

It was around 11 at night; not quite as dramatic as midnight, but they were getting impatient and besides, it didn't really matter that much...

~~~

In Murderface's room it was dark. The bassist snored in his bed. He hadn't changed his sheets in about four years and they were getting a bit funky but he didn't really care. 

It was a bit weird for him to be in bed this early. Usually he'd be up partying until early morning with the others. Lately, though, he'd been feeling tired. The quality of his sleep just sucked. 

He didn't know the reason why, but if he had, he probably wouldn't have believed it anyway. 

Murderface's eyes opened; they were blank, solid brightly glowing purple. 

He sat up, stiffly and robotically, the movements too precise to belong to him. The veins in his right arm glowed purple, and they trailed all the way up to his chest where, under the frayed shirt, a strange sigil burned. 

Murderface—or Murderface's body—stepped out of the bed. His footsteps fell uncharacteristically quietly on the cold floor as he walked to the window, yanked it open, and stepped out into the chill night air. 

~~~

It was weird to be controlling Murderface's body, Mordred thought. 

There were all of the obvious reasons. One, it was weird to actually have the ability to do this. 

When Salacia had hired him, he'd showed him the technology that was still in its beta testing stage, that would allow the user (victim?) to control the bodies of others. Of course Mordred had agreed to be Salacia's guinea pig. He didn't really have a choice. Either he put his life on the line for the Tribunal, or...Salacia knew Mordred's checkered past, gear tattoo and all. There was certainly enough material there for blackmail. And then what? Being forcibly taken back to Mordhaus where, no doubt, they'd find new and horrible ways of causing him pain he'd never felt before? 

No, this way was safer. But it was a hard price to pay for his betrayal. 

As it turned out, the body-snatching technology they'd implanted in Mordred's wrists and heart and eyes and brain actually worked, almost without a glitch. 

Now he was on the couch in his apartment, coffee in hand. He couldn't see—well, he could see, but all he saw was Murderface's vision—so Seth was texting all the updates to Crozier. 

Mordred took a sip of coffee and smiled mirthlessly. "The falcon has left the nest."

Over Murderface's footsteps, he heard Seth's thumbs tapping on his phone screen. 

~~~

Another weird thing was how different Murderface's body was from Mordred's. Mordred was tall and wiry, with the slim frame that ran in the family. Years of Klokateer training had left him with lightning-fast reflexes and hard muscle all over. 

Murderface was, well, pretty much the opposite. His feet dragged on the ground and it took Mordred a ridiculous amount of effort to make his body walk quietly. His movements were slow and heavy. His senses were dull, especially his vision and hearing. The man needed glasses for his myopia and would probably need hearing aids by the time he hit 50. 

Mordred dealt with it, though. He hadn't come this far to be stopped by these mere roadblocks. 

He made Murderface walk along the patio, toward the dark water beyond where a volcano loomed up from the depths. 

A spotlight was trained on him. He turned to face it. A Klokateer was barreling toward him, katana in hand, but the black-masked man drew to a halt as he realized exactly whom he was attacking. "Sir?"

"I'm goin' for a walk," Mordred said through Murderface's mouth. "Don't come followin' me. 

The Klokateer hesitated suspiciously, but Mordred knew that his loyalty would override any common sense he had left. Mordred could practically see the gears grinding as he thought. Murderface was a rather eccentric man...

"Yes, sir," said the Klokateer. 

"Pish off," Mordred said. 

The Klokateer did so.

Mordred smiled as he made the bassist's body turn a corner into darkness. It was easy to stay in character for Murderface. Murderface was full of enmity, disillusionment, nihilism, and spite; Mordred was full of enmity, disillusionment, nihilism, and spite. 

He wiped spittle from the man's mouth. He didn't understand how he lived with that lisp, and why he hadn't gotten a retainer or something to at least try fixing it. 

He reached the pier that hung over the deep water and stared through Murderface's eyes at it. He thought he saw tendrils swaying under the water, and slimy things slithering predatorily past under cover of darkness. 

He stripped the man's boots off, went through his pockets and took anything that could weigh him down out; car keys, wallet, Dethphone. He put the items inside one of the boots and then shoved them under a shrub to hide them. 

He jumped into the water. 

The cold hit him like a car going a hundred miles an hour hits a brick wall. 

Well, it hit Murderface's body; in fact, his fingers were tingling already. But it didn't exactly hit Mordred. He felt the cold surround him, but he was also aware of the warm room he was sitting in. 

~~~

Something warm settled on Mordred's body. Seth had fetched him a blanket. "Thanks," Mordred mouthed to his partner. 

~~~

Murderface took a deep breath and dove under. 

Mordred could feel the man's atrophied muscles straining, but he kept pushing. It wasn't that far to the Church. 

It felt like forever, though, until he reached the volcano. He let Murderface's body rest, clinging to the red cliff of the volcano's side. He wasn't overly fond of the man, but he couldn't have him die. Not when the completion of Polaris was so near. 

Then he went back under the water, one last time. 

The pressure increased; luckily the bassist had a thick skull. Soon his eyes, raw from the foul black water, opened and saw the underwater entrance to the Church. 

It was relatively easy to guide his body through the door, Mordred's brain guiding Murderface's clumsy fingers to disable any security systems; even though he was sure none of the priests would lay a finger on him, which was one of the reasons they used their pawn rather than just enter the Church themselves, it was best to be safe. 

Down paths surrounded by a forest of blue crystal, through forbidden tunnels, past the lava-oozing nave of the Church. At last he reached the inner sanctum. 

There was a small room leading off from the nave. It had a lot of clutter; old card tables, cleaning products, a lonely chair with one broken leg. It was weird, the contrast between otherworldly and mundane, but Mordred was used to the weirdness by now. 

There was a wooden door with a sign reading STORAGE. Murderface's clammy hand turned the knob and stepped in. 

Inside was a dark circular room with all surfaces painted black. Although there was no visible light source, the room had shifting shadows marked by faint, pestilent red light. In the center of the room there stood a long, wide black chest on a dais. Murderface walked toward the dais, knelt and opened the chest. 

The pestilent light shone upon his face, setting it off in repulsive chiaroscuro. Inside the chest lay the spare Gears left over from the creation of the Black Klok. 

~~~

In the apartment where Mordred's catatonic body rested, Seth hurried to grab the incense and find some matches. He yanked Mordred into a kneeling position on the floor. The taller man could assist him, but not much; it was difficult to maintain control of your own body, let alone someone else's as well, when confronted by the spare Gears. 

Seth lit the incense with shaky hands. The smell of sage filled the room. 

Mordred frowned, eyes closed, and raised his hands so that they were palms together, fingers pointing up, imploring the heavens in prayer. 

His dry lips parted, and so did William's. He had his devotions memorized. 

"And in the end, brother shall rise up against brother, and there will be blood shed throughout the land, flowing in the streets and in the marketplaces. The red star will fall, and with its fall, pestilence, corruption, greed and decay shall ravage the land no more. The fallen shall be trampled under the heels of gods and men alike. And thus it is written, all things must pass; at last the gods and men will return and lie with the fallen. _Malleo cadent, cadaver autem mortui inter surgit._ "

From somewhere in the house came the noise of Seth clumsily slaughtering a goat. 

~~~

Charles Foster Ofdensen awoke with a start.

~~~

Murderface lifted some of the Gears from the box, protected by the barrier of Mordred's scripture. They were about the size of his hand, or a bit smaller, and had a strange clinging weight to them. They went into his vest pockets. 

Quick, now, there's not much time left...He turned, eliminating any clues that he'd been in the Church as he went back to the exit. 

It was harder to swim now that he was weighed down with spare Gears, but he didn't have very far to go. He was just going to the other side of the volcano. 

The volcano was actually on a small island, jutting out of it like the yolk of a fried egg. He crawled up onto the cold beach, stood and surveyed the land, after which he went to a small hill of sand and dug into it. He pulled out a mallet and a pair of pliers. 

The last rays of the sinking sun bathed him as night fell. He pulled the Gears from his pocket and let the rays hit them. Slowly, the Gears melted and bubbled into a malleable near-liquid. 

He used a flat rock as a makeshift workbench and began shaping the viscous metal with his tools. 

Here, Mordred let Murderface's instincts take over. This was an area where he actually somehow knew what he was doing, or at least something buried deep in his basal ganglia did.

Slowly, the melted Gears began to take on different forms; ones that looked suspiciously like the tuning knobs, bridge, and input jack of a Gibson Thunderbird 5-string bass...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Latin is probably terrible but, um, I don't know Latin.


	11. Nightlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus' plan doesn't go exactly the way he'd imagined it.

Magnus' drink slopped unheeded over his clothes as he watched the band on the stage. Around him in the bar, chairs flew through the air and face-shattering punches were thrown, but Magnus seemed to have his own little bubble of undisturbed space. 

He looked unimpressed, mostly because he was. 

It was easy enough to put on a normal face and pretend not to be a sociopath hanging to sanity by a thread. It was easy enough to say "yes, I'm fine," and "nothing much lately," and "Guinness, please."

It was easy to not collapse and scream and start stabbing everyone in sight. Easy. Perfectly natural. 

Magnus' good eye focused on the man he was after; the man on stage, on the guitar. His bad eye did too, but this wasn't really the same. 

He'd noticed something weird. With his blind eye, he thought he could see people's emotions. 

Yellow was fear, purple was rage, sky blue was joy. Some people had clouds of grey around their heads. He thought this was depression. 

When he looked in the mirror, he didn't see any emotions. He wasn't sure why. 

Anyway...the pale, square-jawed guitarist's head was surrounded by the garish pink of intoxication. He grinned hazily at the audience, none of whom were paying attention. His blond dandelion-fluff hair caught the light, setting off the halo of emotion quite nicely. He plucked the spliff from his mouth for a moment to speak. 

"We'll be doing one more song," he said, voice husky with smoke. "Thank you. You've been a lovely audience," he lied. 

He began picking out a funk riff. The horns behind him joined in, then the bass and drums.

Magnus sighed. He'd misjudged how much time he needed, and he'd had to sit through fifteen minutes of "Jericho Frost and the Screaming Divinities" playing bland funk song after funk song. Well, the time was almost up, and then he'd find out what he needed to know. 

Jericho and the bassist (a tall, gangling black man in grungy clothes named Nicky "Shaft" Agnew; Magnus recognized him vaguely) both approached their respective microphones. 

"Hey, once I was a boogie singer playin' in a rock and roll band, I never had no problems, yeah, burnin' down one night stands..."

Magnus sighed and rolled his eyes. Kill me now, he thought. He was desperate. Even his inner monologue was getting sarcastic. 

He slipped his hand into the messenger bag and fondled his knife to comfort himself. He ordered a sandwich to keep himself going, although he didn't feel hungry. 

"So, still I kept on fighting, well, losin' every step of the way. I said, I must go back there and check to see if things still the same..."

Magnus barely noticed when the band finished playing, it was so loud in the bar. He caught a glimpse of them carrying their own equipment out the back way, though. He finished his food and quietly weaved through the crowd. 

The jolt from the chilly air as he stepped out into the darkness numbed him. The air was hung with a light mist, making the asphalt shiny and slick and filling Magnus' lungs with the smell of rain. He saw Jheri curls and dandelion fluff huddled together in the alley behind the bar, and quietly stalked the two men down. 

"Mm. Then what'd you tell the bitch?" Jericho said quietly to the bassist. 

"Well, to get the fuck out of my fucking parents' house, man, they don't deserve that," Shaft replied. He took a drink from a bottle. "I don't know what I was doing messin' around with her in the first place. Should've left soon's she told me she wasn't taking her pills."

"Yeah. Don't stick your dick in crazy, man. Shitty that she did that to your mom's parakeet."

The taller man saw Magnus first. He raised his hand in greeting. "Hey, Maggie. What're you doin' hanging around here? Don't you have better things to be doing than associating with us peasants?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Magnus hadn't exactly made a terrific first impression last time he'd met these guys. Of course, he didn't think he'd made a good first impression in his life. 

"I thought I'd just drop by to visit my good friends Jules and Vincent." Magnus said with a smile. 

"Magnus?" Jericho said. He raised an eyebrow and raked his hand through his shaggy hair. The big bags under his sleepy eyes looked even worse under the dim moonlight. "What are you doing here?" His voice was quiet. Magnus saw his apprehension and fear, and that he was trying to guard himself. Shaft just looked confused. 

"I need something. Information," said Magnus.

"You only ever come around when you need something," Shaft said, brown eyes narrowed. 

"Yeah, so what? That's how I treat everyone, y'ain't special. It's part of being antisocial. Now, Jericho..."

"What is it this time?" Jericho looked angry. He was quite clearly drunk and stoned, and he wobbled a bit on his feet. Shaft grabbed his arm to help him balance. 

"It's...private." Magnus eyed Shaft. 

The taller man got the hint. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine. I know when I'm not welcome. I'll be snorting coke off that hot waitress's tits if anyone needs me." He left. 

Jericho Frost looked back at Magnus. "What do you want?"

Magnus sighed. He was a bit amused. Jericho was so petty, so angry at the world. He wondered how anyone had enough energy to stay that angry all the time rather than just not giving a shit. 

"I need to get into the Church of the Black Klok," Magnus whispered. 

Jericho's eyes went wide and he got at least 10% more sober from the shock. 

"What the fuck? You know I can't do that, man! I can't do that!"

"Oh, I think you can."

"D'you know what I could lose if I got found out?" Jericho's day job involved working on the technology needed to keep the Church habitable; it wasn't easy or cheap to maintain a building that was half underwater, half bathed in lava. 

"Well, I think we can work out a deal. You take me into the Church, I don't let anyone see these...photos of you I've come across."

Jericho blanched. His lips tightened. "Photos? What the fuck are you talking about? What are you on?"

"You know, some pictures of a questionable nature I have of you and a certain Dick 'Magic Ears' Knubbler, in rather, ah, compromising positions."

"Fuck. You're...you're fucking bluffing, man. I don't believe it. You're bluffing."

"Oh, I don't think so. Now, what toll would that have on your career, the Church finding out that you got your high-paying glamorous career not for your qualifications in the workplace, but for how good of a job you could do of sucking Dethklok's scuzzy producer's dic—"

"Alright!" Jericho hissed. "Okay! I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want, man."

The color of defeat was a washed-out forest green. 

Half an hour later, they were standing at the edge of the pier, staring at the water. A volcano loomed in the distance. It had been pretty easy to get into Mordhaus' grounds. Jericho'd had to put handcuffs on Magnus, pretending he was a prisoner, and then flash his ID at the Klokateers guarding Mordhaus. He was unlocking the handcuffs now that no one was watching. 

Magnus looked back at Jericho, who was planning something. 

"No, it won't work," Magnus said. 

"Uh, what are you talking about?"

"You can't leave the handcuffs on and push me into the water to die...yes, I know what you're thinking. I think the same way. I'm a coward too. And you can't do that because I won't die." He sighed. "Don't you think I already would have if I could?"

Jericho sighed and finished unlocking Magnus. Magnus stretched his arms out and rubbed his wrists. 

"I'm not too sure about this—" Jericho began. 

Magnus was getting fed up with this. He pulled the knife out and shoved the smaller man against a tree, then pressed the knife to his throat. "Maybe you're not, but I am. Now just shut the fuck up and take me in there!" he hissed. 

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Jericho's voice cracked. "Okay! Okay! Calm down!"

Magnus backed away. His eyes returned from crazy mode to normal. He rubbed his temples, the beginning of a headache throbbing behind his eyes. 

Jericho pulled a remote control out of his pocket and pressed a button. "Dude, what the hell happened to you? You used to be...cool."

Magnus didn't answer. 

"And what happened to your eye? And your chest—"

"Dethklok happened. Dethklok happened, okay, Jericho? Is your curiosity satiated?"

"Uh, no, that actually raises more questions—"

"Just shut up. I'm not in the mood for fucking questions, okay?"

Finally, Jericho was quiet. 

Magnus didn't even know how he felt. He knew now that it was wrong to try and destroy Dethklok. They didn't deserve to go through what he had. But a deep dark part of him still thirsted for their blood, and part of him was still fixated on Toki Wartooth. 

And there was the fact that he was trying to destroy the Doomstar. He didn't know what this would do to Dethklok. He knew that he wouldn't have done this if it weren't for Salacia, however. 

None of this could really be helped. He was too much of a coward to turn on Salacia. So here he was. 

Something rose out of the ground smoothly. It was about the size of a car, but rounded. Magnus was confused. He turned around and looked at Jericho. 

"It's a Dethsub." Jericho said in response to Magnus' unasked question. "We're going to use it to get to the underwater entrance of the Church." He typed something in on a keypad on the side of the sub. The glass dome on top swung open. "Get in."

Magnus got in the passenger seat, Jericho in the driver's. With the click of a button the dome smoothly shut again. 

Magnus clenched the knife. He was feeling anxious already. He hated enclosed spaces, and being underwater. 

A hatch opened beneath them. The sub went down like an elevator, taking them underwater. 

Magnus twitched as he watched the hatch doors slide closed above him. His head jerked from side to side. All around was darkness. He began hyperventilating. 

"Chill," Jericho said. "I've driven this thing thousands of times. It works perfectly. It should, I designed it." He flipped a switch and the Dethsub's headlights came on. Softy, the vehicle plashed into the water. Magnus could see bubbles rising. 

He curled into fetal position, clutching the knife with shaking hands.

"Chill!" Jericho said. "I didn't make this whole fucking trip here and get blackmailed just so you could have a fucking anxiety attack while I'm trying to concentrate! I'm not doing this again!"

Magnus fumbled in his messenger bag for a drink. 

Jericho eyed him while steering the sub lower. "You're fucking pathetic, you know that?" he said quietly. "Still trying to get revenge on Dethklok. Just give up."

Magnus shook his head. "It's not revenge this time. It's for me."

"Yeah, revenge for you. You were always full of that vindictive bullshit. You know, you always thought I was the immature one out of our band! Well, guess what? Who here has a stable job, hobbies, and a good home life? And who here is almost fifty and doesn't have a job, or a home, or a family, and is trying to get revenge for something that happened, what, ten fucking years ago, while drunk? Why can't you just let it go, Magnus?"

"I AM letting it go! You don't understand, it's unfinished business. And I'm not almost fifty, okay, I'm forty-two. And it wasn't ten years ago. It was seven." He sighed. "This isn't about revenge any more. This isn't about you and me. I'm the fucking pawn in someone's chess game. If I get to my objective, maybe then I can get what I'm here for."

"What are you here for?"

"I...I'm here to die, Jericho."

Jericho sighed and shook his head. "Fucking pathetic."

"Yeah, well at least I didn't suck Dick Knubbler's co—"

"SHUT UP SHUT UP! That was a long fucking time ago and I was desperate! It could've been anyone, it could've been you!"

"It could not have been me. That guy would have to pay me to give me a fucking handjob, okay? I'm out of his league." Magnus snorted. 

"You aren't. Look at you. You look like you're on meth."

"I'm not on meth, I never was. And I've been clean for four years, okay?"

"You're drinking right now," Jericho pointed out. 

"Who made you the fucking judge of everyone? Besides, this is medication for me. Just think of it as anxiety meds. It helps me."

"I feel sorry for your liver."

"Don't be, I won't be needing it soon if this goes well...Hey, why are we surfacing?"

There was a little more moonlight under the water. Magnus glanced over at Jericho. Weirdly, he just looked bored. 

"Going around the volcano, just seeing if there are any hazards we ought to watch out for."

"I don't have time for this." Magnus crossed his arms over his chest. 

As they rounded the coast of the volcano, though, they both saw something strange. There was a lone figure in the middle of the island, crouching over something.

"What's that?" Jericho said. 

Magnus' hand, of course, went to the knife. "You pull up onto the shore over there, quietly. I'll get out and see."

Jericho followed the orders. They docked on the beach pretty far away from the mysterious figure. Magnus jumped out as soon as Jericho opened the dome. He snuck over to the person, needing to see who it was. He noticed something weird; they had no aura. 

Curiosity killed the cat, he told himself. But satisfaction brought it back. 

Knife drawn, he was merely about ten feet away from this person when he stepped on a twig. He cursed internally as the figure whirled around. 

Then he was shocked, practically frozen in place. 

The man stood up and started walking toward him, with jerky, robotic movements. This was pretty creepy in itself, but the man's eyes were glowing bright purple. 

"Fuck," Magnus whispered. He recognized this man. 

He turned tail and ran like a coward. 

Jericho was watching, mouth open. Magnus jumped into the Dethsub. 

"Drive!" he hissed. 

Jericho frantically punched buttons and twirled knobs. The dome slid shut again and they dove under. 

"What the fuck?"

"Drive, just drive okay?"

"What's going on? Who was that?"

"I'm not entirely sure. But I'm not going in while he's there. This is dangerous."

Magnus' heart was pounding. What was going on? Did Salacia somehow manage to get someone else doing his bidding? Was this entirely unrelated? 

Most importantly, why was William Murderface sneaking around the Church at night, under the influence of what looked, to Magnus, suspiciously like mind control?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jericho and his band play is Play That Funky Music by Wild Cherry.


	12. Post-Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki has nightmares, again.

The whip cracked down on Toki's back again and again. 

His silent father had been beating him for what felt like hours. Toki knew he deserved it. He shouldn't have burned his parents' dinner. It was disrespectful, and he knew he was a dirty sinner. 

The blows were drawing blood. Toki could feel it welling up. He bit down on his lip. 

At least someone was paying attention to him. He knew he'd be locked in this pit in the ground for the next three days, all by himself. 

Toki's life was filled with silence. He would've wanted people to pay attention to him and love him, if he'd known that it was a possibility. 

Silence and darkness and two pairs of pale eyes like bicentennial quarters watching his every move. 

At last the whipping stopped. Toki turned around, wondering if his punishment was completed. 

It wasn't his father standing behind his prostrate body, whip in hand. It was Magnus Hammersmith. 

"Now, sit up and open your pretty little mouth for Daddy. That's a good boy..."

~~~

He woke up. He was in his bed in Mordhaus. Model airplanes and rockets hung from the ceiling. Posters with big words he didn't understand were lining the walls beside his warm, comfortable bed. Stuffed animals rested on the pillows beside him. 

He hugged a pillow and curled into circle. Don't cry, don't cry...It was useless. Tears fell on the pillow like light summer rain. The sheets felt cool against his embarrassment-flushed face.

 _Han var alene_. He was so alone. He wondered if Abigail was okay...

Maybe she would make him feel better. She could hug him and sing to him. He wanted her to kiss his forehead, like she always did, and tuck him into bed so he'd be nice and warm. It was like a sandwich, but instead of bread it was Abigail and Nathan, and instead of peanut butter or tuna salad or whatever it was little Toki. 

Yeah, she'd be able to help him. She always helped him. 

He got out of bed and padded down the hall to Nathan's and Abigail's room. For some reason, though, he stopped this time. There was light streaming from the crack under the heavy door, which was weird since it was so late. It was way past Toki's bedtime. 

He listened very carefully at the door.

He heard Abigail's voice. She was making high-pitched noises, like she was in pain...He heard her call out Nathan's name. He wondered if Nathan was hurting Abigail, and he immediately grew angry at the thought, his fists clenching. 

But, no, it sounded a bit different. 

"Oh, Nathan, oh, don't stop...please...oh, God, right there!"

Toki recoiled from the door, realization striking him. They were doing...It. 

He felt like he was going to throw up. His face burned even hotter with embarrassment. He wondered if he should burst in and apologize, but even he knew that this was a bad idea, so he just retreated safely to his room. 

_Oh, Gud_. Oh, God. He felt like he'd just accidentally intruded into something very private. Part of him knew that they were adults, sure, they could do It if they wanted to. That was probably why they acted all kissy and gross all the time. But part of him felt very weird at the thought of it. 

He couldn't lie here by himself, though. Not with the thought of Magnus looming over him still fresh in his brain. 

Maybe he could go to Pickles. 

He went further down the hall to Pickles' room. The drummer was blasting music from a speaker. A bunch of other guys and girls were standing around while Pickles was telling a story. They all had red Solo cups in their hands. 

"And then I says, I says, well...did ya see what she did ta yer mom's fuckin' parakeet? Of course ya gotta break up wit' her!" 

Everyone laughed. 

Pickles saw Toki. "Hey! Toki, come hang out!"

"Come hang out with us!" the noisy crowd all yelled. 

"Um..."

Toki was pulled into the sweaty, booze-smelling room. There were three people naked on the bed in positions Toki hadn't known were possible. The floor was covered in dropped Doritos and spilled drinks and cigarette ash and someone's puke. 

"What's goin' on, man?" Pickles said affably. 

"Um...Nothings. I wanteds to maybe talk somewheres, you know, private?"

"Anyt'ing you kin say ta me, you can say in frunna deez people." Pickles accent was strong and slurry. He was completely hammered. His breath smelled like cough syrup and Bailey's. 

"Well..." Toki looked around. Everyone's judgmental eyes seemed to focus on him. 

"You look tired, honey." A blond girl in a slutty dress eyeballed him and smirked. "You look like you could use a drink. Why don't you come with me, I'll get you one..."

"Gettings drunk don't solve your problems, it just hides them for a whiles. They still there," said Toki. 

"Y'know, we're jest tryin' ta have fun here. I don't t'ink I like yer atti...atudi...attitude." Pickles glared at him. 

"I tolds you, I just ams wanting to talk."

"If you wanna be a fuckin' downer, you can go hang out wit' Murderface!" Pickles slurred. 

Someone laughed raucously. Toki frowned. 

"Fine. I wills, then. Goodsbye," said Toki. 

Murderface was asleep in his room. He was dripping wet with what smelled like pond water, and his arms were scratched up. His hands had shiny stains on them. Toki tried to shake Murderface awake, but he wouldn't. 

He looked tired. Toki sighed and gave up. 

The only one left was Skwisgaar. Toki walked further down the hall and found his room. 

As usual, Skwisgaar was with a lot of naked chicks. He was lounging in bed, smoking a cigar and watching one of his own music videos on the TV. They were taking a break; unfortunately, even for Skwisgaar Skwigelf, refractory periods did still exist.

Toki didn't get why everyone needed to go around having sex all the time. It wasn't that great. 

"Skwisgaar?" Toki said. 

Skwisgaar looked up. "Ja?"

"Uh, does you mind if you comes out to haves a little talk with me?"

"Ughhh," Skwisgaar groaned. "Toki, why ams you so needy? How comes is it that you can'ts just act like, you know, a normals adult? It's like 2 A's M in the mornin's."

"Skwisgaar," Toki whined. 

"Urgh. Fine. I guess I can does you this favor one time." Skwisgaar dislodged himself from all the naked ladies and pulled on something to cover his own naked body. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. 

"What's is it?" the Swede said, more quietly. 

"I has a nightmare and I don't feels good."

Skwisgaar frowned. "Abouts dat Magnus again?"

Toki nodded. "I don't wants to talk about him. But my dads was there too."

Skwisgaar bit down on his full lower lip. "Well, makes sense that they would bes in your dreams togethers. They ams both, you know, huge dildos."

Toki laughed a bit. "Right."

"Um, Toki...so, let me tells you somesthing. You can be very annoys-ing sometimes. And you thinks you can be playin's the guitar as good as me, and that's just not true. But...you are a good guitars player."

"Does you really means that?"

Skwisgaar awkwardly put a hand on Toki's shoulder. "Of course. We needs you in this band. And...I likes you. You puts up with alls my crap."

"Oh, Skwisgaar, don't talks like that."

"No, it ams true. And...well, your dad and Magnus, those guys ams both deads. Kaput. Kickeds the bucket, shuffled off they's mortal coil, joineds the choir invisibles. You know?"

Toki was nonplussed. "I guess so."

"So we has to try and find a ways to stop worrying about these deads guys. You ams got your whole lives inhead of you, Toki. Not like me."

"You's not old, Skwisgaar."

"I am. I'ms the third oldest guys in this band. Probably gonna dies, like, tomorrows."

"Don't talks like that." Toki's lower lip trembled. 

"It's true...oh, I'm not goods at this sensitives shit. I guess I'm just tryin' to say I cares about you, Toki. You's like my brother."

"Really?"

"Ja. I never had a littles brother before."

"I never has a big brother before," Toki said.

"Well? How is it?"

"I think I like it."

"That's goods." Skwisgaar smiled. "I like havings you for my littles brother. Even if you is a dildo sometimes."

"That's what bein' brothers is. Sometimes you acts like dildos, but really you cares about the other guy. I think."

"That sounds good," Skwisgaar said. "So, um, you is wanting a hug, I think..."

Toki hugged his brother, drying his tears on the taller man's long hair. "Thanks you."

"No, thanks you. For bein' my brother."

They broke the hug off and stared awkwardly at each other. 

"I gotta go fucks me some sluts now. I'm gettin' reals horny," Skwisgaar said. 

"That's gross."

"You're gross."

"I'm goin' to bed now. See you tomorrows."

"Sure. Maybe I'll takes a turn trying to cooks the breaksfast."

"That sounds good. Goodsnight, Skwisgaar," Toki said. 

"Goodnight, sleeps tight, don't lets the Kloksateers bite."

Toki gaped. "They wouldn't bite me!...Would they?"

"Ja, they bites people. They bites your toes off in the night. They gots sharp teeths like the piranhas, you know?"

"You's jokin', Skwisgaar..."

"Ja, sorry, I'm pullin's you legs off."

"Skwisgaar, I needs my legs!" Toki's voice got more high-pitched with each word. "I needs them to walks and stands and ride the bike-cycles and stuff!"

"No, it ams a metasphor, Toki, calm down! Pullin' your legs off! It means you're just jokings, you know?"

"But...that's not funny. That's sounds like it hurts."

"I don't know why it's like that, Toki," Skwisgaar said. "It's just is. Pullin' yous legs off. It's a joke metasphor."

"Um...okay."

"Now, go to bed," Skwisgaar said. "Sweets dreams and stuff. _Godnatt, Toki_." He smiled affectionately. 

" _Godnatt, igjen, Skwisgaar_." Toki couldn't help but smile back through the drying tears. 

Toki went back to his room. 

He did feel better as he crawled between the sheets. Skwisgaar did like him, even if he didn't show it like a normal person would. That was okay. None of them were normal, and it bonded them together. 

He fell back asleep and had dreams about Klokateers pulling his legs off as a joke, but at least he didn't dream about Magnus.


	13. Blood of the Covenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred and Seth try to deal with the situation.

"Magnus fucking Hammersmith...I don't fucking believe it! I thought he was dead."

It had crossed over into the early hours of the morning and Seth and Mordred were having a drink. Mind control took a lot out of you, and Mordred needed some way to relax. They were playing some stupid movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger in the background. Seth had a lot of these kind of movies with him. 

"I heard the Metal Masked Assassin stabbed him right through the fuckin' heart," Seth murmured. 

"What does he want?" Mordred asked. "C'mon. We're so close to finishing Polaris. All we need is one last piece of the puzzle and we're done, we get revenge, Crozier gives us our money. Magnus can't screw this up now. What could he be doing?"

"Maybe just hanging around," Seth said. "Y'know, goin' for a walk."

"He came out of a fucking submarine, Seth! He had an objective! He wasn't here for the scenery." His hands tended to ball up in his dark hair when he got overwhelmed by emotion, and now was no exception. "I have to figure it out." He tugged at his forelock viciously. "We might have to...take care of him." Tug. 

Seth leaned over and grasped Mordred's hand, then dislodged it from his thick hair. "Chill out, man. We're going to fucking finish this. We're the fucking winners here."

Mordred looked confused. Seth just pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. 

"Landlord said no smoking," Mordred murmured. 

"Fuck her. They can never tell, anyway."

Mordred's hand began to float to his hair again. Seth grabbed it. 

"Look at me," Seth said. "We're the winners. I told you."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means I ain't a quitter, and neither are you! It means we're gonna get to the end of this goddamn project and we're going to get our money and we're going to...going to split up and never fuckin' see each other ever again."

They stared at each other. 

"Never again?"

Seth placed a cigarette in Mordred's mouth and lit it with his own. "Uh, yeah. This is just a business relationship. We can't get all fuckin' attached."

"Yeah, but we could keep talking if we wanted to, right?" Mordred said. 

"Yeah. But we won't. That's the way the fuckin' cookie crumbles or whatever, man. It's just life."

Mordred actually noticed for the first time how tiny Seth was. He was about 5'7" with a small frame; Mordred was about eight inches taller than him. He looked like a child, utterly dejected, his slicked-back pompadour hanging in greasy strands about his face. 

Mordred got up. "I'm gonna keep talking to you, though."

"Why? I'm a douchebag."

"Well...yeah, but you're my douchebag." Mordred spoke quietly. "You're my friend."

Seth bit his lip. 

"C'mon, don't look at me like that," Mordred said. "You're my friend. I'm not gonna stop talking to you just because the stupid project is over."

Seth wrapped his arms around Mordred's waist and started furiously crying. It was right then that Mordred realized exactly how much Seth had had to drink. 

"I never had a friend like you," Seth sobbed. "You're not an asshole. You don't take my stuff, and you don't make fun of my fuckin' height, and you buy me coffee. I don't get it."

"That's what being friends is." Mordred wasn't exactly a good hugger, but Seth was clinging to him like a koala bear clings to a eucalyptus tree. 

"I like you. You're nice." Seth sniffled. "Uh, no homo."

"You're pretty cool."

Seth finally let go. He sighed and tapped his cigarette into a skull-shaped ashtray. "I guess I should tell you something." 

"Yeah?" They both sat down. 

"I...I'm going through a divorce right now."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah." He held his head in his hands. "I don't fuckin' know what happened. I guess I don't even know why I got fuckin' married in the first place. I think just to say, 'Hey, look at me, the successful normal adult.' I have a job and everything now. I mean, she's takin' half my money, but I got enough left over I guess, now that it's just gonna be me. 

"She's takin' the fuckin' kid, too. I...I would put up a fight but I don't even know his fuckin' middle name. Some father I am." He laughed. "Just like my dad."

"Why don't you, uh, tell me about your dad?" Mordred had heard Seth mention his family in passing before, and he'd never had anything good to say. 

"Well...I was the favorite," Seth said. "That's right, me. Not the successful krillionaire rockstar, oh no. The drunken deadbeat dad who was living in his parents' house up until a year ago. That should give you a clue what they're like. 

"My dad yelled at my brother all the time, like...'You got a 78 in this course? Your brother got a 82!' And shit like that. It wears you down. It's hard havin' to be the good kid all the time, especially when you're not good.

"But I envy my brother and I don't fuckin' know why. I mean, not just the success. The fact that he's fuckin' free. He's okay an' I'm still attached to my asshole parents. I don't know why I fuckin' hate all their guts so much. I wish I could just stop it. But I can't. 

"I can't even listen to the kind of fuckin' music I like. I used to like all that punk shit and then my brother went through this punk phase when he was like 14, safety pins through the fuckin' ears, the whole deal. I can't listen to it without thinkin' of him and how much I hate him. I don't know why I hate him. He got me a fuckin' job. So...yeah."

He stubbed his cigarette out. This was the longest he'd ever talked about a single subject.

"I don't know if I understand exactly what you went through," Mordred said hesitantly. "But my family was pretty shitty and I'd like to offer my empathy."

"What's that mean?"

"It means...I feel for you."

"Oh...thanks, I think."

"And you can't let your brother ruin music for you," Mordred said. "That's letting him win. And we're the winners."

"Right." Seth stared at the ground and smiled a bit. 

"Let's try and listen to some of that shit right now." Mordred poured himself some more whiskey and coke. "You like the DK's?"

"Fuck, of course."

Mordred started playing a song from his phone. He plugged the phone into the stereo system and started air—guitaring at Seth. 

"Oh, fuck," Seth said with an embarrassed grin. "It's been years since I heard this. That's fuckin'...nostalgia, man."

"C'mon," Mordred said. "Get up, c'mon!"

"I don't wannaaaa!"

"Yeah, c'mon, have another beer. Here." Mordred shoved a cold one into Seth's hand and pulled him to his feet. "You can't sit still and listen to this."

"Uh, watch me—" But he couldn't help singing along, and neither could Mordred. 

"Went to a party, I danced all night, I drank sixteen beers, I started up a fight," they both yelled in their best imitations of Jello Biafra. 

Seth grabbed Mordred's hairbrush off the table and used it for a microphone. "But now I'm jaded, you're outta luck, I'm rolling down the stairs, too drunk to fuck!"

They both screamed the vulgar words to the chorus. The empty, warm room began to feel a bit like home.

They took turns singing at the verses after that, kind of in a contest to see who could pay the best homage to the singer, which was unusually fun in a song including the lyric "You ball like the baby in Eraserhead." When the song finally ended they both ran into their rooms and then back out. 

"Bet you didn't know—" Mordred began. 

"Hey, fuck, I got—" Seth began. 

They stared at each other. Mordred was holding a Fender Jaguar. Seth had a Flying V in his hands. 

"Hey, you never told me—"

"How come I didn't—"

The next song started. They both gave up on not being confused and played along. 

"Dah-ling you got ta let me know!" Mordred called in a bad fake British accent. Seth snickered. 

"Should I stay or should I go?" they both sang. They were actually harmonizing. 

"If ya say that you are mine, I'll be there 'til the end of time. So, ya got to let me know—oh, should I stay or should I go!"

Someone in the apartment above them thumped on their ceiling with a broom. They didn't care. 

Seth attempted to drink and solo at the same time, and was successful at neither. 

At the end of the song Mordred sang all the English bits and Seth did the Spanish ones. They grinned like idiots at each other. 

"You never told me you fuckin' played guitar!" Seth said. The next song started. 

"I just sorta picked it up. My brother was in a band."

"Same...Oh, wait, you already know that."

"Yeah, idiot," Mordred said. 

"Hey! Ho! Let's go! Hey! Ho! Let's go!"

As they sang Mordred crept up on Seth. "Hold on. I saw this in a Van Halen video once."

Seth grinned awkwardly as Mordred reached an arm over his chest to hit the other man's strings with his pick. "Ah, Van Halen, the fuckin' epitome of heterosexuality."

"Any guy that can dress in that much spandex and still get that many chicks has my respect," said Mordred. "Now you do me."

Seth reached over Mordred's arm to strum his guitar. "That's what she said."

"Shut up...Pulsating to the backbeat! The Blitzkrieg Bop!"

"Hey, ho, let's go, shoot 'em in the back now," Seth sang. "What they want, I dunno, but they're all revved up and ready to go..."

As it turned out, neither of them got to sleep until 5 AM, and the landlord got three separate noise complaints, which was not punk at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs: Too Drunk to Fuck by The Dead Kennedys, Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash, Blitzkrieg Bop by The Ramones.


	14. Existentialism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus does some stuff.

Magnus Hammersmith had no idea how he'd gotten to the animal shelter. 

...Well, technically, that wasn't true. 

He'd awoken this morning on the couch in Jericho Frost's bungalow, while being shaken awake by a girl with blonde cornrows, freckles, too much makeup, a baggy T-shirt with a pattern of pot leaves, and an aura of frustration. 

"Fuck off," he'd grunted. His dreams were more pleasant than real life. They involved his death. 

"Get off my couch!" the girl hissed. "My fucking show is on!"

"Fuck off, bitch!"

"Shit," he heard the girl sigh. "Jericho!" she yelled. 

"What's the fucking matter this time?! I'm making breakfast!" the guitarist yelled. 

Magnus chuckled to himself, eyes still closed. Ha, he thought. I blackmailed a dude. 

"Jericho, get your fucking pet methhead hobo off my couch! I gotta watch Heartland!"

"Fuck, Danny. I thought you PVR'd it?"

"You broke the PVR. Remember, you were drunk and trying to deep fry it. Get this asshole off the couch!"

"Do you know who I am?" Magnus said. 

"No," Danny said flatly. "Jer-i-choooo!!"

"Fuck, I'm coming!" Jericho ran into the kitchen, spatula in hand. He looked tired, but he'd looked tired as long as Magnus remembered. "Magnus, leave."

"I wouldn't be the one throwing orders around," Magnus said with a smirk. He sat up, stretched out, and folded his hands behind his head. 

"Magnus," Jericho said through gritted teeth.

Magnus coughed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "Dick Knubbler."

Jericho rubbed his temples. "Maybe we should let him stay for a while."

"Thank you, at least someone around here's got a head on their shoulders." He stared pointedly into Danny's grey eyes while saying these words. 

She rolled her eyes. "Fuck, whats gotten into you, Jer? It took us three months for you to invite us in for a fuckin' snack and you let this douchebag crash on the couch just like _that?_ " She snapped her fingers on the _that_. 

"There's circumstances!"

"I'm not leaving until I get to watch Heartland!"

"Jericho, tell your psycho bitch girlfriend to shut her mouth and kindly fuck off," Magnus stage-whispered. 

A vein in her forehead throbbed. "I'm not his girlfriend, retard! I'M THE FUCKING SAXOPHONIST!"

"Yeah, I'm sure you play his saxophone all night, don't you?" Magnus snapped.

"Magnus..." Jericho said. "Please. I have a hangover. Just be quiet and sit there, quietly, and let her watch Heartland. At a low volume. Thank you—"

"Oh, I get it, Jer." Danny smirked. "This is your new boyfriend. You don't usually go for the fixer-upper types, but I can see the appeal."

"Fuck no!" Jericho and Magnus both shouted. 

"You think I'd—" Magnus began. 

"—sleep with him?" Jericho said. 

"Fuck. Ew. Get real."

Someone stuck their head around the corner from the stairwell. It was Shaft Agnew. 

"Could you guys please keep it down?" the tall man said. "Constantine is trying to sleep."

A huge skinhead-looking kid with a forehead like a cliff lumbered out from behind Shaft. Magnus assumed that this was Constantine. 

Danny kicked Magnus in the knee. He screeched and drew his injured leg closer. She hopped onto the couch, found the remote and turned the TV on just in time for Heartland. "Yessss."

"Ow...how many fucking people live in this house?" 

"The fucking band, idiot. It's the band house," Danny said. 

"How many people are in the band?" Magnus said, speaking very slowly, as if to a child. 

"Me. Jericho. Shaft. Constantine. Westie. Gamal. So, six."

"I didn't know polygamy was legal here."

"Fuck off."

"Seriously, Magnus, if you're just going to be a dick then you can get out," Jericho said. 

Magnus silenced Jericho with a gaze. He lit a cigarette. 

"Don't smoke in here, I'm allergic!" Danny moaned. 

Another guy, a man with glasses, close-cropped hair and tattoo sleeves, stuck his head in from the kitchen. "You're smoking pot in here half the time I see you, don't give us that crap."

"Shut up, Gamal. Ugh."

Magnus blew smoke in her face. 

"What's he still doin' here?" Shaft asked Jericho. 

Jericho sighed. "It's a long story...Just, everyone try and not be dicks to each other, okay? I'll make pancakes. Then, Magnus, you'll get out of my house. I'll drive you somewhere, we'll put up the money for a hotel or something..."

"We? What d'you mean we?" Shaft demanded. 

"I'm not paying for him," Danny agreed. 

"You all will if I say you will, okay? Don't test me, I have a hangover."

"Dude, we know you drink, you can stop humblebragging," Gamal said. 

"I'm not humblebragging, I don't even know what you mean...Are you making grilled cheese sandwiches in there? You know I'm making breakfast, right?"

"Uh, I got hungry."

Jericho sighed and walked to the bathroom to grab an aspirin. "I'm surrounded by idiots..."

A little girl in pajama bottoms and a huge plaid shirt who looked like a tiny female version of Gamal, complete with matching glasses, came downstairs, rubbing her eyes. "What's going on? I woke up..." She stood there for a moment, rubbing her eyes. 

Gamal rushed over. "Westie, take this sandwich and run upstairs and play with your Barbies for a while, okay?"

"They're not Barbies, they're American Girl dolls..." She froze and saw Magnus, then tried to hide behind Gamal's leg. 

"Gamal," Magnus heard her say, "who's the guy with the scary eye?"

Magnus grinned at her, baring his teeth. 

"It's no one, kiddo, it's one of Jericho's friends. Here, come on, come upstairs." He led her upstairs, giving Magnus a weird look. 

"Why is there a 9-year-old in your house?" Magnus asked. 

"She's 11," Shaft said. "She's the drummer."

"What? Her? She's tiny."

"She's a better drummer than you'll ever be, douchebag."

"What, is she that guy's kid or something?"

"Gamal's 19. She's his little sister."

"Where are their parents?"

"You're just full of questions, aren't you?...Their parents are dead."

Magnus looked a bit taken aback. 

"That's right. Died in a tragic house fire. I'm off to take a shower. Call me when the pancakes are ready." He started upstairs, but Constantine stood rooted to his spot. He was staring with beady eyes at Magnus. Shaft sighed and tried to pull him upstairs. The huge skinhead growled and followed the bassist. 

"He doesn't like you," Shaft hissed at Magnus before disappearing upstairs. 

"Finally. Some fucking peace and quiet." Danny sighed and turned the TV up. 

"Your band is weird."

"Fuck, tell me about it." She snorted. 

They watched Heartland for a minute Magnus had known that he wouldn't like the show, and it was true, he didn't. Danny sipped at her coffee and Magnus wondered where she'd got it. 

He fished around in his bag. He had hardly any brandy left. He poured some down his throat. 

"Hey, give me some," Danny said with a smirk. 

"Trade you for your coffee. I think I'm still asleep."

"It's an espresso." They traded drinks. "So, who are you, anyways? Besides some random douchebag methhead off the street."

"Well. I'm Magnus, and I've been sent on a quest by a demon to destroy an evil star of...doom. And I play guitar sometimes and I drink a lot."

She let out a throaty laugh. "You're fuckin' crazy, you know that?"

"Crazy?" He smiled. "You don't even _know_ what crazy looks like...so who are you, then, now that you know all my deepest darkest secrets?"

"I'm Danny, and I play the saxophone. Uh, I'm kind of a dick, if you hadn't guessed. That's pretty much it. I work at the animal shelter downtown."

"Animal shelter? Check. Cornrows? Check. Smokes pot? Check. So, what's your Tumblr url? Care to explain the tenets of feminism to me?"

She kicked at him while tipping the bottle up to drain the last of its contents. "I don't have a Tumblr. I'm a Redditor, dickweed."

"I stand corrected."

"And feminism? The radical notion that women can do anything men can, apart from some very specific bodily functions."

"I like your shoelaces," Magnus said. 

"Thanks, I stole them from the...Fuck. You got me. Fine." She rolled her eyes. 

"I'm more of an egalitarian myself," said Magnus. 

"Oh, yeah? How's that free market economy going for you?"

"I'm working on it. Filthy commie."

"So, is this how you normally pick up girls?" Danny asked. "Kind of unorthodox. I like it."

"Only on weekdays. I do, however, make a point of only sleeping with people I hate. That way I don't get mad when they dump all my stuff on the front lawn and start screaming."

"That's a good strategy," she murmured. "I'll have to remember that."

"So, is Jericho, uh...your boyfriend?" he asked. 

"Fuck. God, no."

"You fight like an old married couple."

"We all fight. Besides, he's like my brother or something. It would be weird. Plus he's short. I can't be taller than a guy or it gets weird."

"I'm 6'4"," said Magnus, wiggling his eyebrows. 

"You don't have to keep trying so hard, I'm going to sleep with you, we both know it."

"I'm just being my naturally witty and charming self," said Magnus. 

"HahahahaHA," she said. "Yeah. The...the whole fighting thing, though. I get tired of it."

"You seem like you like it."

"I'm just used to it. And I guess I am kinda argumentative, or whatever. But sometimes it comes to blows and I don't know if it's good for the band."

"I know how you feel." 

"Yeah. And, uh, I don't really like talking about people behind their back, but..."

"I think you can talk about people behind their back if you also talk about them in front of their back," said Magnus. 

"That's a good one. But, yeah, Jericho is such a dick sometimes. He's domineering. He thinks he's doing everything right, he doesn't listen to anyone else's ideas, and he never does what I tell him...Sometimes I think I'd actually do a better job of leading the band." She sighed. "Sometimes I just wanna pack my shit up and leave."

"Don't."

She glanced over at him. 

"I've been in this situation before, trust me," said Magnus. "You gotta stay with them through thick and thin. They're your family. You're lost without a family." His heart was sinking even lower than usual. 

"God."

"I know you won't listen to my advice, you're just a dumb teenager. But I want you to look back when you fuck up to this moment, and I want you to imagine me saying 'I told you so.'"

"I'm not a dumb teenager," she said. "I'm 21, I'm a dumb adult. I can buy booze legally now, yay."

"That's even worse than a teenager."

"I was already the worst," Danny said. 

"No, that's me."

"Whatever helps you stay awake having an existential crisis at night."

He snickered. 

Eventually clothes did come off and things went into other things but this story isn't _that_ kind of story so that all gets skipped through. 

After pancakes, Magnus and Danny both showered. Magnus had no idea what to do now. Try to go back to the Church? Maybe. He wouldn't actually take Jericho's money, but he knew he had to leave the house. Jericho was getting antsy. 

So Magnus got in the car with Danny and they drove to the animal shelter...and that was how he got there. 

He sighed, bored, and strolled around. The place smelled like pet food and wet dog, probably on his list of 5 least favorite smells ever. The fluorescent light triggered a gnawing headache; he rubbed his temples to try and dissipate it. 

He stared absently into a cage that was chest height. It contained a litter of kittens. Magnus stared at them. 

One walked up to him and mewled. It was black, with a white face and a white tip on its tail. Its left eye was clouded over with white cataracts. 

Magnus tentatively extended a finger into the cage. The kitten licked it, then nipped it. Magnus pulled away and grunted. "Little bastard."

The kitten meowed at him again until he petted it. "You think I'm going to forgive you for that?" he said to the animal. "You're not even going to apologize?" The kitten purred happily. 

"Ah, he likes you."

Magnus whirled around. A plump woman carrying a plastic bag full of fish was beaming jovially at him. He felt his heart go ticking into overdrive; he was talking to a cat. In public. Christ, he probably looked like a psycho, and that was the last thing he needed.

"Oh," he managed. 

"That one, he's cheaper," said the woman. "People don't really want the, er, deformed ones." He saw the embarrassment cloud around her as she noticed his eye, but she was decent enough not to say anything. 

The kitten stared up at Magnus. 

Don't buy it, idiot, he told himself. It'll just be expensive. You'll have to feed it and clean its shit and stuff. It's a bad idea.

"How much?" he heard himself ask. Fuck. 

"Thirty-five dollars, got all his shots and everything."

"I'll take him."

Ten minutes later, he had a cat in a plastic pet carrier and a can of wet food for it. He couldn't believe he'd just wasted money on a damn animal. 

After a while, Danny got on her lunch break. She had time to drive Magnus somewhere. He had to decide what to do...

"I need to get to Mordhaus," he said. 

"What? Isn't that that big mansion where that one famous band lives, or whatever?"

"Dethklok." Magnus' voice was deep. "Yes."

"I'll take you as far as Solarfall Boulevard," she said. "I don't have the fuckin' time to drive to Mordhaus. Besides, isn't that place armed to the teeth?"

He nodded. 

"Get in the car," she said. 

He did. They drove in silence for a while. 

"You know," she murmured, "I think I'll remember you for the rest of my life."

"That's what they all say." He looked up at her. "No, I feel the same way about you."

Hopefully, the rest of his life wasn't too long. 

"Is this goodbye, then?" she said, pulling into a Dimmu Burger parking lot. 

"I guess so."

"See you, then. It's been real."

He nodded, grabbed his messenger bag and the pet carrier and stepped out of the car. He watched her drive away into the horizon. Life hurt, but sometimes it held miracles. 

He knew where Dethklok's old house was, not even a block away. He cut through the parking lot to find it...

He hid in the attic when he got there. It was musty and pleasantly dark. He let the cat out of its carrier. It nuzzled up to his leg sleepily, and he scritched its forehead. 

"I'll name you Zarathustra," he whispered. The kitten mewed. 

What to do?

"Salacia can't see me," he said to Zarathustra. "He can sense me, but I'm just like any other person to him, and he can't actually physically see me, okay? I'm safe from him; he can't find me unless I want him to. So I could run anywhere. But then I wouldn't die."

Was he immortal, doomed to walk the earth until the end of time? He could hear the artificial heart whirring inside of him, and pressed a hand to it. "No, that's not an option."

"Now, I could try to actually find the plans for the star...but I don't know how."

He remembered Jericho vaguely saying something about the religious amulet Charles always wore around his neck being important. He wished he'd paid closer attention.

"I could try to steal the amulet," he said. 

"No," he replied. "I, I can't believe it. You're just like you always were. You're just a fucking coward."

He bit his lip and buried his face in his hands, then let out a wild scream of agony. "I can't! I can't do it! Don't do it, no, you can't..."

He looked up at the kitten. It was cleaning its paws nonchalantly. He scooped the surprised feline into his arms and cradled it. The warmth against his body felt good, and the cat's purring complimented the tick-tock of his heart. 

"You believe in me, don't you, Zara?" he asked the cat. 

It meowed. 

Maybe...maybe he wasn't all bad. Maybe there was a tiny bit of undamaged human soul hidden away in the black decaying recesses of Magnus Hammersmith's mind. It seemed impossible, yet the proof was here, purring in his arms. 

He didn't hate the cat. It was the first thing he'd not hated in a very long time. He'd always been a cat person; they were clean and independent and usually quiet. And they were warm, and he was so very cold. 

"I have to tell him," he realized. "I have to tell Charles and the band. I don't care if I never get to die. They need to know they're in danger."


	15. Communication Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles makes a phone call.

The sun had reached its zenith and was now starting its inexorable crawl toward the horizon. Up in his tiny, book-filled apartment in the "spire" of the Church of the Black Klok, Charles Foster Ofdensen dialed a number on his landline (the Dethphones didn't get good reception inside the volcano) and picked the phone up, playing with the amulet around his neck while waiting for an answer. 

~~~

A tinny guitar riff echoed through Mordhaus. 

"Shomeone'sh phone'sh ringing!" Murderface yelled from the living room, where he was watching a nature documentary about blue-ringed octopi and sticking pins in a little voodoo doll of Skwisgaar, and wondering why he was so damn tired. 

The guitar riff repeated itself. Pickles looked up from what he was doing in the kitchen: feeding tomatoes to his tarantula. "Could someone git that? This fuckin' hangover is killin' me."

Skwisgaar and Toki were both irritated. In Skwisgaar's room, Skwisgaar was trying to show Toki a solo for a song on the new album. The phone ring was interrupting the delicate science. 

"Whose fuckings phone is ringing?" Skwisgaar yelled. 

Nathan came running into the living room, zipping his jeans up. "It's mine! Sorry, guys, I was busy." He picked the Dethphone up. 

"Doin' what, exactly?" Pickles said, walking into the room and smirking at Abigail, who followed Nathan in and leaned against him. 

Nathan glared at the drummer as he answered the phone; the redhead was obviously in the mood to needle people today. "Uh, hello?" he said. 

"Hello?" said Charles. 

"Oh! Charles, how ya doin'?"

Everyone dropped everything to gather around the phone. "Put it on shpeaker!" Murderface hissed. Nathan did. 

"I'm good, thank you, Nathan," Charles said. "How's everyone feeling today?"

"Not bad," Nathan grunted. 

"Pretty good," Abigail purred. 

"Great!" said Toki. "Hi, Charles!"

"Horny," Skwisgaar decided. 

"Fucking shitty," Pickles said. 

"Me too, and tired," Murderface said. 

"William, take a nap. Pickles, there's aspirin in the kitchen, and I keep telling you, drink water when you drink alcohol, okay? Skwisgaar, all the numbers of the girls who sent you fan mail are in the address books on top of the fridge. Toki, it's good that you're feeling good, but remember to keep taking your antidepressants, they're in your bathroom cabinet. Nathan and Abigail...er...how's things?"

"Very good," Abigail said. She started kissing Nathan. 

"Ah, that's good. You're...you're making out on the other end of the line, aren't you."

"Mmph," went Nathan.

"Ah. Lovely."

Toki took the phone from Nathan's hand and turned speakerphone off. "Hi, Charles," he said. "It's Toki. He started wandering around like he always did when he talked on the phone. 

"I can tell," said Charles. 

"I misses you," Toki said. 

"I miss you, too, Toki."

Toki sighed and played with his hair. It just wasn't the same, having Charles live in the Church. Abigail was doing a very good job of being their manager; she'd adapted well to stepping into Ofdensen's shoes, being a natural leader, and a good negotiator, which threw Damion Cornickelson, the dickweed inheritor of Crystal Mountain Records, off. Still, Toki wanted to see Charles more. You didn't know how much you missed him until he was gone. 

"...Toki? I don't mean to be rude, but I'm on a tight schedule. Is there anything you wanted to tell me?"

"When are you movings back?"

Charles drew a deep breath. Fuck. He knew Toki would ask that again. He couldn't stand lying to the boy, but it was so hard to break his heart. 

"I don't know," Charles said. "Toki, I might not ever move back in. The Church needs me. And I technically don't even work for you any more."

He heard Toki sniffle. "But I misses you. All of us ams missing you."

"I still talk to you."

"It's not the sames, Charles. You know it ain't the sames."

"You'll get by without me. Abigail's helping you."

"All Abigail ever does is kissings with Nathan. It ams gross."

Charles fought back a chuckle. "Well, why don't you talk to her about it?"

"Um, I don't wanna."

"Well, tell ya what, Toki, I'll tell her. Now, you behave, alright? I have to go. You feeling better?"

"A bit." Toki sniffled. 

"Alright. Hang in there, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks you, Charles, I loves you."

I..." CFO choked on the words that were so easy for the Norwegian to form. "I—uh—love you too, Toki."

"Byes. Don't let the piranhas bites your feet off." Toki hung up. 

~~~

Charles hung up too, and looked down at his phone. Well. That was weird. 

He had to be downstairs in a few minutes. There was a meeting he had to attend. But first he had to talk to Abigail. 

He attempted to compose a text message. Charles hated texting. It seemed like a good idea; you got to plan what you were saying, there were no awkward pauses like there inevitably were in phone calls, there weren't any of those pesky nonverbal cues that he had such a hard time picking up on. But when he had time to think about what he was saying, more often than not he ended up not actually saying it. He got nervous easily. 

No man should have this much power, he thought as his thumbs hovered over the phone's screen. 

_Hey, Abigail._ No, too brash. _Good morning_...No, too formal. _Abigail, I was talking to Toki and..._ He backspaced the sentence. 

Just do it, Ofdensen, you pansy, he told himself. He typed something up and hit send without even proofreading it. 

_Abigail, Toki thinks you're paying too much attention to Nathan. I don't know what you think about that but I agree with him. You are the band manager now, after all. You're responsible for all of them. —CFO_

Oh god, you sound like a complete douche, he moaned at himself. Christ. 

Oh well, too late to worry about it now. 

His phone kept vibrating during the meeting. He kept getting disapproving looks from people who were afraid to say anything to their superior. He felt acutely embarrassed, and was glad he didn't blush, or he'd have been red all over with the humiliation of it. 

After the meeting he leaned against a random doorway to read his texts. He had one from Abigail. 

_He said that to you? I didn't think he'd actually notice. But I guess it is true lol. You're right._

He replied. _Sorry, didn't mean to be so brash, was in a hurry. Thanks for cooperating. —CFO_

She answered almost immediately. _I'll talk to Nate about it. Also when are you taking that stupid text signature thing off your phone?_

_I can't figure out how to take it off. —CFO_

_Ughhhh._

He was about to stuff his phone back in his pocket when it started ringing. He sighed disgustedly and answered it. 

Deacon Nix walked by and smirked. "Popular, are we?" Charles rolled his eyes. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, Charles! It's Toki!"

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. "Toki, I'm at work. I'm kind of busy."

"Oh."

"So if, you know, if you could hurry it up a bit that'd be great."

"Ah!" Toki said. "Well, I wanted to knows if you ams doin' anything for dinners?"

The question caught the High Priest off guard. "I don't think so, Toki, why?"

"I thought we coulds maybe go out someswhere nice for dinners. I hardly ever gets to see you any mores, Charles."

God, that hurt his heart. "Alright, I'll make sure my schedule is clear. What time did you want?"

"Well, I gots to go to therapy in a minutes, and Nathan says I gots to clean my room, but after that I'm not doin' anything. How abouts 7 at Skjellum's?"

Charles vaguely recognized this name; it was a classy restaurant not too far away from Mordhaus. "Well, sure. That sounds nice."

"Okay! I'll get a ride or somethin's, okay? Don't worry 'bout me. I'll see you there."

"Alright, Toki...And the therapist isn't Twinkletits, is it?"

"No," said Toki, "I'm seeings this lady, Emma. She ams real nice."

"That's good. Okay, I'll see you." 

"Bye, Charles!" Toki hung up abruptly, just like always. Charles sighed and stuffed the phone under his robes. Despite himself, he couldn't help but smile. 

Deacon Nix strolled past again. "Got a hot date?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "It's Toki Wartooth."

"I didn't know you swung that way."

Charles sighed. "Nix..."

"Hey, I'm just joshin' ya."

"Alright. Would you take over my duties for tonight? I've apparently got, ah, engagements."

"Sure thing."


	16. The Unfavorite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred and Seth have a talk.

"We still haven't gone to the Church," Seth mused. 

They were in a mostly empty Duncan Hills coffee shop again. Seth was perched on a chair, hyper; lately most of his buzz actually from caffeine and cigarettes rather than cocaine. Mordred was in the booth across from the table. As the tall man pounded down his fifth espresso of the day, Seth had come to the conclusion that Mordred was addicted to coffee. But that was irrelevant. Mordred looked up from his laptop. 

"Yeah, and?" Mordred raised a thick dark eyebrow. To someone else, he could've come off as dickish and sarcastic. Seth knew the truth, which was that Mordred _was_ sarcastic, but only to people he really liked. 

"Well...you've seen the Church," Seth whined. "Everyone's seen the fuckin' Church except me."

"Hey," Mordred said, "stop fucking swearing."

"Ughhhh. Fuck you."

"Why are you so antsy?" Mordred said. "Yeah, sure, we have no idea what Magnus was doing there, but we're going to head over tonight. Crozier got us some scuba-diving crap so we don't die or something."

"I want to get there before that dickweed Magnus does whatever he's up to," Seth said. "He's up to no good, I can tell. He's got those beady little fuckin' eyes...how did his eyes get like that, anyway? That's weird."

"Nathan Explosion knocked him out and fucked his eye up." Mordred smiled as he fell into a reverie; he remembered Magnus telling the story countless times to the Revengencers. "Before they had the big fight, the one that shattered the first iteration of Dethklok, Magnus was already beginning to break apart from the rest of the band. Maybe he never had really been part of it. He was always different, always singled out, the band's scapegoat...or so he said. 

"In reality, he was a total narcissist. I know, I have a past with the man. He always wanted control over the band, but Nathan fell into the leader role more naturally. They had a final showdown that ended in Nathan's confirmation as the alpha-male of the group, and Magnus being beaten to a pulp and leaving the band only to swear revenge on them. And years later...well, here we are. You know the rest of the story."

There was silence. Seth slurped up the remnants of his strawberry milkshake and contemplatively wiped the pink stickiness out of his mustache with the back of his hand. "Man, what a dick," he mused. "I mean, I lie all the time, but at least I'm honest about it." He winked in what was probably supposed to be a charming fashion before his face fell into a more serious mode. "How do you know so much about him?"

"About Hammersmith?...We have a past. And the Revengencers, remember."

"You wouldn't know all that just from being in the Revengencers," Seth said. "You're more connected to him. And I can tell ya hate him."

"You can?" Mordred was confused; he always did his best to hide his emotions. 

"Yeah. You get this, like, look. Like this fog comes over yer eyes and you pull yer lips in real tight. You look like you could, fuckin', rip a dude's throat out with yer teeth."

"Wow."

"You should tell me." Finished with his food, Seth was idly alternating between fiddling with his gold wedding band and playing with the deep auburn undercut that badly needed a trim. "Man, you practically know my whole fuckin' life story. I think I deserve a li'l something in return."

"I guess you're right." Mordred sighed. "Okay, but I haven't told anyone this in years. I prefer not thinking about it, actually. It's kind of...strained—"

"Could ya just tell me, man?"

"Fine." Mordred gulped. "Magnus Hammersmith is—he's my twin brother."

He didn't have to look up to hear Seth's jaw drop. The smaller man's pointless stimming creaked to a halt. "What? What the fuck?"

"Fraternal twin, not identical," said Mordred. "And he...he left me. When I went off to be a Klokateer he spat in my face and told me he didn't have a brother any more. And he was right." Mordred gnawed on his thin lower lip. "He was just kicked out of the band and he thought I was doing it as a personal affront to him. Like the world revolved around him, like anything that pissed him off had to be done for that sole purpose. Everyone was out to get him, especially me. 

"He was always a dick, even when we were kids. He was born six minutes before me and he never stopped lording the fact that he was older and more 'mature' than me over me. And I believed it, was the shitty part. I looked up to him. He was tall and well-spoken. He got the girls. He played the guitar and he was in what s-seemed like hundreds of bands. 

"Well, one day I just decided I could be all that too. I remember hanging from a pull-up bar in my b-bedroom doorway every night for ten minutes to try and make myself taller, before I figured out that I was just a late bloomer. He's still an inch or so t-taller than I am. 

"I had the worst stutter you ever heard as a kid. They told me I was born with his umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, and I always secretly thought that had something to do with it, that he'd fuckin' c-cast some kind of spell on me. So I read and read out loud to the m-mirror every night until I got over that stutter. Read everything I could get my hands on. I came out of that spell with the v-vocabulary of someone twice my age only to realize that he had a natural verbal grace that I n-never could touch. 

"I never was guh-good with girls. Why would they want m-me when they could have fuckin' Magn-nus? Every girl I met dumped me. Never had a steady girlfriend in my l-life. 

"I rented a guitar with the m-money from my news-puh-paper route. Kept at it for what seemed like f-forever. Was nev-ver good at it. My fuh-fingers were always too big. I switched to b-bass. Nobody n-needs a bassist.

"My whole l-l—" He grunted and sunk his head into his hands. Knobby fingers studded with rings, each containing some kind of vile, exotic poison or venom, sought for purchase in thick raven hair. He gritted his teeth viciously and steadied himself. "My whole life has been a series of nevers. Never as good as my brother. Never talented enough for any b-band. Never had enough commitment to be a good Klokateer, or save the Revengencers when they needed me. Never...never had any f-friends..."

He felt arms wrap around him from the side, and bristled at the crude touch. Seth smelled like smoke and port wine and grocery-store cologne. He felt Seth's forehead press into his shoulder, Seth's wet eyes and nose dampening his black cloak. 

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice squeaking past tight vocal cords. "I didn't want to make a scene. You asked."

"I...I didn't know." Seth hiccuped. 

"And that's why we have to do this right," Mordred said, the grim determination returning to his chiseled features. "I'm finally going to be good at something. We're going to bring Dethklok down once and for all. We're a team."

"That...what you said about never having any fuckin' friends or whatever," Seth murmured. "Is that really, uh, true?"

Mordred chucked. "Yeah. I was pretty much your standard textbook reject kid. Thought I'd make a difference someday, grow up and be great. Just like my brother." His voice sounded impossibly bitter. 

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?" 

"You're...you're a pretty cool guy. And you're smart and shit. No homo."

"Yeah. I don't know," Mordred said. "Kids are assholes."

"Well, uh, you got a friend now."

Mordred looked down into Seth's wet green eyes, at his sad little attempt at facial hair, at the quivering mouth. He felt a sudden surge of something strange: affection. 

"Yeah. You do too." Mordred smiled a bit. He wiped at his eyes. 

"I was never...like...popular," Seth said. "I got a confession. I'm kind of a douche."

"I know. But I like it."

Seth let go of Mordred and tried to compose himself. "God...So. Uh. This is just me bein' weird and shit, but I think you should try and see your brother." 

"Why? So he can rub it in my face? So he can fucking bring me down again? Yeah, right."

"Maybe he feels different now." Seth stared at the grimy, stained Duncan Hills coffee shop floor. "Maybe he's changed. Maybe he's taken in his own failures and fuckin'...reevaluated his life. Maybe...maybe he's sorry."

Mordred looked over. Seth was biting his ragged fingernails. 

"What d'you mean?" Mordred said, voice tense. "You think he'll be ashamed? You think he can _feel_ shame? He's a psychopath, Seth. You think he'd just change?"

"Morty, anyone can change," Seth's voice was hoarse and thick with tears of regret. "And that could've been me."


	17. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about Toki.

The damp stone floor he lay upon would've sent chills deep into Toki Wartooth's flesh if he'd been able to feel anything any more. 

He was curled up in the dungeon, chained to the floor by his neck. Magnus didn't let him get up to use the bathroom and he'd wet himself. He barely noticed. It was just another humiliation added to the endless pile. 

Footsteps sounded from the top of the stairs. Abigail protectively curled around the catatonic Toki. She was handling it better, with more dignity; however, Magnus was also taking it easier on her, since he didn't bear any personal vendetta against her. 

She looked down at the floor, not at Magnus, and she bit her lip. 

"Hello." Magnus' voice was deep and husky. "How're we doing today?"

"Fine." Abigail's voice cracked stubbornly. 

She felt the sharp sting of his hand against her cheek. It brought tears to her eyes. "Look at me when you're talking to me, bitch!"

She looked up. His eyes had gone wide and manic again. He struggled to breathe as his eyes returned to normal. 

"I've got a little game to play." Magnus' lips curled into a smile. 

He kneeled to unlock Toki, then yanked him to his feet by the collar. He slammed him against the wall. 

"You pissed yourself. Seriously, what are you, a fucking infant?" Toki didn't answer. Magnus grabbed his hair and yanked it. "Answer me."

" _N-nei, jeg er ikke, far_." Toki's voice was rusty. 

"In English, you fucking retard! This is America, we speak English here."

"...No, I'ms not."

"'No, I'ms not,'" Magnus sang mockingly. "Christ. Learn to talk, how fucking hard can it be?" He slammed Toki's skull into the brick wall again. The Norwegian's knees began to give out, but Magnus was holding him upright by the collar. Abruptly, he started pulling Toki over to the corner of the room. There was a sawhorse in the corner. Magnus threw Toki at it. 

"Put your hands on it and bend over, stand on your toes. Like you're doing a push-up. You do know what that a push-up is, right?"

" _Ja. Jeg mener,_ yes."Toki obeyed the order. He leaned against the sawhorse and closed his eyes. Splinters dug into his calloused hands. He could hear Abigail protesting in the distance. 

"Perrrfect," he heard Magnus whisper. "Now don't move." Toki felt a knife pressing into his side. He held his breath. 

He felt Magnus' hands on his sides, sliding down to his hips, pulling down the baggy, torn jeans. Cold, rough fingers trailed up his ass. He began to panic, but stayed very still. 

"Now," Magnus purred, "I have a whip here. And I'm gonna give you twenty lashes, and you're gonna count them out for me, okay, sweetie pie? And if you fuck up, or if you collapse to the ground, I'm starting over. That sound good, _min lille gutt?_ "

Toki turned around, movements frantic. For a moment, he was in the pit in the ground by the house near Lillehammer, his father waiting there...

"How do you knows Norwegian?" Toki rasped. 

"Ah, picked it up. And don't talk to me unless you're spoken to, bitch. Turn back around. That makes it twenty-five lashes. Better not fuck up again."

Toki was still. Magnus trailed longing fingers down his back, making his flesh quiver with disgust. Then the whip cracked down across his back. 

"Ah!...one," Toki squeaked. He bit down on his lip and squinted as he felt again the sharp flash of pain that exploded at first, then died to low burning. "Two." He could feel the blood welling up already, filling the empty riverbed of his spine and dripping down between his trembling legs. "Three..."

He messed up around 11. Magnus screamed at him—how could you fuck up something so simple? fucking incompetent moron. it's no wonder Dethklok haven't come for you yet, who'd want a useless little shit like you—but not nearly as loud as he screamed at himself inside his head. They started over. 

He fucked up again, twice, once at 17 the second time and once at 3 of the third round. The last time, he simply collapsed to the floor, weak from pain and blood loss. His head was bowed, resting against the sawhorse. His face was wet with tears and hot from Magnus slapping him. His body shook frantically. 

"I'm sorries," he sobbed. "I ams a failure, I'm sorry Magnus—"

A vicious blow to the back of the neck and head made him twitch and see stars, and bite his tongue. The violent, dull pain forced him to curl up in a helpless ball. He let out a silent cry, his mouth stained with red. 

Swiftly, Magnus knelt beside him, yanking his head back to assess the damage. Toki panted. His pupils were hugely dilated. Gently, Magnus' fingers traced Toki's lips, smearing the blood around. Toki watched the taller man lick the blood off and return his moistened fingers to Toki's mouth. 

"You taste divine." Magnus darted in. There was a surge of pain, crushing flesh and tearing skin at Toki's neck, above his left collarbone; then the soothing wet roughness of Hammersmith's tongue lapping up the blood dripping from the fresh wound. 

Magnus pushed little Toki to the ground, easily pinned his arms up above his head and straddled him. "Look at you. Look how pathetic you are. No wonder your 'family' aren't coming to save you. You're dead to them, Toki! You're _dead!!_ " The whites of Magnus' eyes showed all the way around the irises. He looked like a rabid animal, a psychotic wolf possessed by demons. "But you're not dead to me, oh no. You still have blood left for me. You belong to me now, they never wanted you anyway." Magnus' fist came crashing down in his face, blinding one of his eyes. "Why'd you take them from me? They were mine! They were MY BAND and you took them!"

"They was..." Toki gasped for breath defiantly. "They was nevers yours. They was Nathan's."

He heard a shriek from Magnus and then his head was pounded against the ground once more; he was rendered deaf, dumb, and blind. When he came to all he felt was Magnus' hot rotting-flesh breath caressing his chilled body, Magnus' hands holding him down and tearing at his flesh, Magnus' dick inside him, ripping him apart, violating him. Toki could hardly move. 

"Oh, you're awake." Magnus smiled. 

Toki shook his head. " _Nei..._ "

Magnus grunted, fingernails scratching Toki's wrists like knives. He was reminded of something, a new way to cause pain. " _Nydelig gutt,_ " he whispered. 

Even with all the awful things Toki's parents had done to him, they'd never raped him. They'd always been seriously religious, they didn't even have sex without sheets covering their nude bodies. They'd never touch Toki like that. 

Until now, that was. The rhythm guitarist heard his father's voice—" _Jeg kommer til å straffe deg_ —" as he heard Magnus'. He felt the pain of old lash wounds grinding into the dirt as he did the new ones. Past and present melded together irreversibly. He cried out and tried to get away from Magnus/his father. It didn't work. Toki was too young, malnourished and weak. 

He heard someone chanting " _...nei, stopp, far, jeg ønsker ikke, nei..._ " He realized it was him. 

The pain got worse as Magnus pulled his legs further apart. "Fuck, you're so much fucking hotter when you're awake. I love those bitchy whiny sounds you make. They always thought you were so innocent. Little Toki Wartooth, he likes hugs and cuddling. I bet they don't know how hard you get when I fuck you." It was true. Toki was burning up with shame. How could he feel like that? He wasn't...gay...for Magnus, was he? He felt so dirty, he wanted this all to be over. "Does it hurt, Toki?" Magnus' smile was a crooked gleaming grimace. Toki thought he could hear someone crying in the background; Abigail. "How does it feel?"

Toki wouldn't answer. His head was smashed into the ground again. Dizziness and nausea overcame him. His vision was filled with white fuzz. 

When he woke back up he was chained to the floor. He could hear Abigail counting. 

"Nineteen..." Crack! went the whip over her back. "Twenty."

Toki looked up, the motion sending him spinning into vertigo. Magnus stood behind Abigail, who was leaning over the sawhorse like Toki had been. Abigail's mouth was a firm line although tears coursed down her face. She slowly slid to the ground when the punishment ended. 

"See, Toki?" Magnus said. "This is how it's done. You're just too pathetic."

But then he turned around and his fingers ran down Abigail's naked body, curled and bleeding on the ground, and he began to touch her like he'd touched Toki. Toki closed his eyes. He felt sick and shameful. He wanted it all to be over now. 

He wondered how it would feel to be dead. He wondered if he could kill Abigail, if he had the strength left in his atrophied arms to choke the life from her. It wasn't like they were alive in any aspect but the physical, anyway. He wondered if he could kill himself, if he could bash his head against the wall hard enough to break his neck. He didn't think he could. He was so weak...

He passed out again. 

~~~

He was crying and shaking now. A warm hand rested on top of his cold one. 

He looked up at the owner of the hand; it was Emma Hwang, his therapist. They were in her office. The room was warm and bright. He clutched her hand, twisted his boots into the thinning carpet, felt the chair underneath him, counted his shaky breaths. 

He was safe. 

"I'm sorries," he said. He picked up a Kleenex and dried his leaky gross face with it. "I just...I didn'ts mean to start cryings about it." He was weak. 

"It's alright, Toki, we have to bring our emotions to the surface." Emma's voice was soft. "I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you, living through that. I'm so proud of you. You've made so much progress, you know."

"Thanks you." He stared down at the faux-birch table. He didn't look up at her. He was afraid of the emotion he'd see there. He didn't know whether the words she spoke were true. 

"You're so strong, Toki. I admire that."

He couldn't help but look up at this. His frost-blue gaze skated over her, over the soft, straightened hair with artificial blond streaks, over the honest, large almond-shaped eyes, the delicate jaw. He stared at her hands instead. Her nails were short and buffed. He imagined those fingers touching him, and blushed, trying to hide beneath his messy brown hair. "Um...thanks you."

"You're going to be okay, Toki, you're strong. I know we can get through this together."

"Okay...can I haves a hug, maybe?"

"Sure." 

He felt protected in her embrace. He buried his face in her neck. Her hair smelled like something fruity and spicy. Her shoulders were so narrow between his arms, the wool of her sweater was so soft beneath his tightly clenched hands. 

"Was it my fault?"

"Was what your fault?" she said gently, drawing back and looking up into his eyes. 

"Magnus, he...he hurt Abigail." Tears glistened in the corners of Toki's wide-set eyes. "I should've protecteds her."

Her hand rested on his shoulder. "You couldn't have done anything. I'm sure she appreciated everything you could do for her. And none of it is your fault, it's Magnus' fault."

"I should've trieds harder! I could've escaped and he would never have layeds his hands on her! I could've offered myselfs up. I'm so...so..."

"Strong, Toki," she said. "You lived through that. Other men would've given up, but you're still here. And we love you. Abigail loves you. The band love you. I love you."

He gulped. "I...I loves you, too."

"You did good enough."

"Okay," Toki said. He looked into her eyes. "I did goods enough."

She hugged him again. He wanted to stay in her arms forever...

Someone knocked on the door. "That's probably your ride," Emma said. "It's six-thirty."

"Oh," said Toki.

He watched her get up and walk to the door; apparently not quickly enough, because whoever was behind the door started drumming out rapid triplets on it. Toki smiled. It was Pickles. 

Emma opened the door. Pickles invited himself in, looking around. "Hey," he said. 

"Hello, I'm Emma, Toki's therapist," said Emma. They shook hands. 

"I'm Pickles. I play drums." His eyes wandered over her. "And you know what they say about drummers."

"What do they say about drummers?" Emma said. 

Pickles shrugged. "You knowww," he said. "Good...sense a' rhythm." He wiggled his eyebrows. 

"Alrighty then...So, Toki, remember to keep writing in your diary, okay?" said Emma. 

"Okay." Toki smiled. "Sees you next week?"

"Yep. And have a good weekend," she said. 

"You too."

"Hey." Pickles butted into the conversation. "Are you from Tennesee? 'Cos yer the only ten I see."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Okay, bye, Toki." 

"Bye." Toki started going toward the door. He dragged Pickles with him. 

"Hey," Pickles slurred. "If I said you had a beautiful body would you, uh...take off yer clothes and dance around a little?"

"Please get out."

"I seem to have lost my number, can I have yours?"

"I'm sorry," Emma snapped, "I only date humans, not leprechauns." She slammed the door in his face. 

"Wow," Pickles gasped in awe. 

"I gots to be there in a half of an hours," Toki said. 

"Oh. Right. Let's go, now." They started walking down the hall. "Man, I bet she's a goer, eh?"

"What? What does thats mean?" Toki was confused. 

"It means...uh...I dunno. Something sexual, probably." Pickles wiped his nose on his wristband. "I like them Japanese girls, though. They're sexy."

"She ams Koree-an, Pickle."

"Korean?" Pickles said. They came out of the building and scanned the horizon for Pickles' red Firebird. "Is that the Gangnam Style Korean or "The Interview" Korean?"

Toki rolled his eyes. "Souths Koree-an, Pickle. Quit bein' so ignorant."

"Hey. Don't take away my hobbies." They located the car. Pickles got in the driver's seat, Toki in the passenger's. Pickles slid a Lynyrd Skynyrd cassette into the deck. It took a few tries for the car to start. 

"Anyway, you shouldn't be talkin' about her likes that," Toki said. "She ams a beautiful womans, you should respect her."

Pickles laughed. "Where do you get this stuff, man?" 

Toki sighed and crossed his arms. He blew air out his nose, making a strand of his silky hair flutter. 

"Fine, fine," Pickles digressed. "I'll back off. She's yours, man. So...how's the whole therapy thing goin'?"

"Good," Toki said. "She says I ams improving."

"That's good." Pickles gave him a crooked smile. "Y'know, uh, I'm sorry I was such a dick to you last night. Sayin' that stuff and all. I was in a weird mood."

"It's okay. I gets it. It's just how you are. I'm like this...all fuckeds up, even though Emma says I'm brave. You're fuckeds up too, but I think you're braver than me."

Pickles looked up from the road for a moment. "Really?"

"Yeah. Alls you guys are brave, coming to save me. You're brave, Pickle. You stood up to your family and you forgived Nathans. They wouldn't have found me and Abigail without you."

"Heh. Me, brave." Pickles stared out the windshield, warm highway light catching in his cold green eyes. "...I like you," he said quietly. "You're my favorite guitarist outta this band. Don't tell Skwisgaar, he'll have a spaz attack."

Toki laughed. "Thanks, Pickle."

"I turn right here, right?"

"Yeah. Then keeps going, it's on the corners of Mazurkiewicz and Solarfall."

"Okay, cool, I know where that is." The Firebird screeched around a corner on two wheels. It seemed that bad driving ran in the an Drumadoír family. "So, you look fancy."

Toki had on a grey sport coat over a charcoal V-neck sweater, and corduroys and tan Oxfords. The outfit was set off by a bright blue scarf that matched his eyes. His hair was tied into a messy low ponytail. "You thinks it's too much?"

"Nah, jest unusual," Pickles said. "Kinda funny, seein' you like that, though."

"Skwisgaar helped me picks it out. He knows all kinds of fashion-type things."

"Yeah, I'll bet he does," Pickles said with a grin. 

"We's brothers, me and Skwisgaar."

"Yeah?" Pickles said. "How come I'm not yer brother, Toki?"

"Oh, well...you cans be, if you want." Toki was somewhat taken aback. "Sorries..."

"Nah, s'okay. I think we're all kinda brothers. Ishnifus was right."

"Wowee..."

They pulled into the parking lot at Skjellum's. "D'you want me to come in with you and wait for Charles?"

"Yeah, that woulds be nice."

Pickles followed the rhythm guitarist across the smooth asphalt and into the smallish building. Inside, it was quiet except for the sounds of smooth jazz and clinking plates. Pickles felt severely out of place. He was wearing the same tank top he'd been wearing for the past three days, jeans with rips in them, and flip-flops. Flip-flops in Skjellum's. The audacity. 

"Table for twos under Wartooth," Toki said quietly to the maître d'. 

"Right this way, sirs."

Pickles could feel people's gazes clinging to him as he sauntered through various rooms. It didn't matter; he was used to it. He was the drummer for the most famous death metal band in the world, (and practically a god) after all. 

They were shown to a table. Pickles pulled out a chair for Toki with exaggerated motions, then sat down himself, arms over the back of the seat. 

"When's Charlie boy gonna be here?" Pickles said. 

Toki checked the time on his Dethphone. "Just five minutes or sos."

"Ah." Pickles kicked his feet up into the table and pulled a flask out of his pocket. He basked under the glares of the regular jackoffs. 

"Pickle, you's making a scenes," Toki whispered. 

Pickles burped. Vodka drizzled off his goatee and onto the black tank top. "What're you talkin' about? Since when are you all prim and proper?"

"Since we came in here, Pickle!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not followin' their rules. Fuckin' stuck-up snotty pigs..." He trailed off, muttering angrily. 

Toki sighed. 

The maître d' came round again and asked them if they wanted drinks. Toki wanted Dom Pérignon, Pickles wanted a Long Island iced tea, "hold the iced tea."

Toki whipped out his phone and started furiously texting. Pickles tried to see the screen; Toki blocked it from him. 

"You're texting Charles about me, aren't you?" 

"Uh, no! No I'm not!" Toki blinked, wide-eyed. 

"Toki, you're lyin', I can tell! You always smile like that when you lie."

"Well...can I helps it?" Toki said. "I think you ams just wantin' the attention."

Pickles frowned. "True..."

The drinks arrived. Toki's champagne was in a bucket of ice. He didn't open it yet. Pickles sipped at his Long Island iced tea (hold the iced tea) and winced. "Ahh..."

From the lobby came the CFO's voice. "I'm here with Toki Wartooth."

"This way..."

"He's here, finally," Pickles said. "I gotta run, 'kay? Have fun."

"Thanks, Pickle. See you laters."

"Should I get someone to pick you up?" Pickles asked. "Murderface or someone? I mean, Nate'n and Skwisgaar and me were gonna discuss the next album—Abigail's been naggin' our ears off—but I could get him to go."

"No, I think Charles ams givings me a ride. But thank you." 

"Bye." Pickles smiled. He walked out at the same time Charles walked in. He gave the well-dressed CFO a high five. 

Charles rubbed the reddened palm of his hand as he sat down opposite Toki. "Hello, Toki. I like the scarf."

"Oh, thanks! It's Skwisgaar's. He said my outsfit needed an accent. Whatsever that means."

Charles was wearing a black Italian-cut suit that highlighted his slim yet broad-shouldered figure and a slate-grey shirt with the top button undone. He and Toki poured themselves champagne and made small talk; about the Church, about guitar, about Dethklok. The waiter came and asked them what they wanted to eat. Then they fell into a comfortable silence. 

Charles had always been a father figure to Toki. He liked hanging out with the rhythm guitarist. He could usually hold a conversation quite well, once you got past the accent, and he was "nicer" than the rest of the band, even if that wasn't saying much. 

"So..." Toki said, breaking the lull. "So when ams you movings back in with us?"

Charles sighed, fed up, although not unkindly. "Toki..."

"No, I know you has to works for the Church. But listen, you can move back in your old apartsment in Mordland! Then you can hangs out with us more!"

"Is that why you asked me to go to dinner with you?" Charles said. "To ask me if I would move back in? Toki, I've already told you, that's not feasible at this point in time. My duties have strange hours, I have to be at the Church 24/7—"

"Charles, what ams the point of...of havings a whole church made for us if you never spends time with us any more?" Toki's lower lip trembled. 

_Fuck._ Charles stared down at his drink. "I don't really feel comfortable discussing it in public like this. But I do still care about you, about all of you. Rest assured of that. And I know I'm bad at keeping in touch, but I'll try to change that."

"Alright." Toki sighed. "Say, how's things goin' in the Church, anysway?"

"Oh, not bad. We've started the preparations for the winter solstice already..."

Toki was only half listening to Charles at this point. He hadn't had a drink in quite a long time, and the combination of the alcohol and his meds was making him feel rather woozy. He watched the High Priest as he talked. Charles tended to shy away from eye contact, but he did look up into the rhythm guitarist's eyes occasionally, when he was making a point or becoming enthusiastic about something. His gestures were smooth, almost too smooth, like they'd been practiced in front of the mirror for hours on end. 

Under the robot mask, somehow he seemed...sad. 

Maybe it really was true, Toki thought. Maybe he'd never come back. Maybe things would never return to how they'd been all those short ages ago, when the band was young and things were so much simpler. Maybe all this weird new change couldn't be reversed; they were finally growing up, they were men and gods and there was nothing anyone could do about it. 

But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, after all.


	18. The Tribunal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orlaag is probably up to no good.

_November 1969_

"What if...what if I get electrocuted by my guitar and die on the stage?"

Mächtigenfällt Orlaag sighed, drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of the Volkswagen bus. "Ish, you're not going to get electrocuted by your guitar. You're not going to die."

Ishnifus Meaddle continued staring gloomily out the window. His fingers fiddled with the tuning knobs on the Gibson Explorer. They were on their way to their first gig and it had to go perfectly. This, of course, meant Ishnifus had to worry about every tiny little damn thing in sight. 

"I still think Death Clock is a stupid name for a band," Sørene Søndergaard, the bassist, pointed out. She was the oldest band member at age 19 and was sitting on the shag-carpeted floor of the van, leaning against one of her cheap shitty amps, cigarette in hand. "Like, what the fuck does that even mean?"

"It came to me in a dream," Ishnifus murmured, not dragging his gaze away from the cold foggy world outside. 

"I dig it," Mäch Orlaag said. "It's kinda groovy."

Ishnifus nodded. 

"How long until we gets there?" Serveta Skwigelf, the rhythm guitarist (and Mäch's significant other) asked. 

"Like, ten minutes, tops," said Mäch. 

"Good," Serveta said. "I'm getting boreds of all this." She crossed her arms, beaded necklaces dangling against her hands. "In Sweden we'd never haves horribles stretches of land all filled with fog and stuffs. We have mountains...hills...more mountains, you names it. America ams borings."

Sørene sighed. The Swedish exchange student could get insufferable at times. "Yeah, and in Sweden you'd be living on the street."

"Shuts up!"

~~~  
_February 1970_

"You're what?"

"I'm cheatings on you," Serveta said.

Mäch fell over on his bed, unable to stand any longer. The telephone cord pulled out to a dangerous length but he ignored it. He broke out in a cold sweat. How could this be happening?

"With whom?" he whispered, but he already knew the answer...

"It's Ish," she said. "We ams sorry."

He _knew_ it. That bastard Ishnifus was always trying to take everything away from him. His songwriting credits, his position as band leader. At first it hadn't been bad. Ishnifus Meaddle was just some weird mopey kid they picked up because they needed another guitarist. He seemed to have his head in the clouds all the time. No one was really interested in him. Then he'd changed; he started listening to that weird music, bands with names like Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd and Blue Cheer. The hardest thing Mäch listened to was _Pet Sounds_. Ish started ranting about things like "psychedelia" and "metal." Mäch didn't even know what metal was. Ish started dropping acid, and he started writing songs. 

Previously a straight-A student but now failing most of the courses he'd chosen in a different mindset, he threw himself into the band completely. For some reason, now, everyone wanted a piece of him. Sørene started actually listening to what he had to say, and the band became an actual unit rather than just the source of a few extra dollars on Friday and Saturday nights. And his own girlfriend, the love of his fucking life, that slut had left Mäch for him. 

It was fucking bizarre. 

~~~  
_April 1970_

" _Wo gehst du hin, Mäch?_ " his mother yelled at him. Where are you going?

" _Nirgendwo._ " Nowhere. Mäch slammed the door behind him as he left. 

The days were getting longer, but it was late enough that it was already dusk as Mächtigenfällt Orlaag walked down the sidewalk, head downcast to hide his face in shadows, hands stuffed into the pockets of his letter jacket. 

He didn't understand why his mom couldn't just learn English. It was weird to go around speaking German all the time. She was just too stubborn to do otherwise. And too stubborn to give him a normal name. 

He was kind of a success. His grades were okay, he was on the football team (although that could possibly change due to his sudden negative change in personality, which the coach didn't appreciate), he wasn't too bad at socializing and stuff. He was an okay guy, but he wondered what might have gone differently if he had a normal first name, like John or David. He thought he would be a good David. 

Mäch cut across the park, looked around to make sure no one was there, and ducked into an alley. There was a door on one of the buildings that walled the alley. He knocked on it, twice, then once, then three times. It opened and he hurried down the stairs. 

The Tribunal wasn't a cult. Cult was such a strong word; they didn't like that negative connotation. It was more of a committee that served revenge to people. Only those who deserved it, however. And if this required a little witchcraft, so be it. It was for the world's good, in the long run. Some people deserved revenge. 

Mäch was early. Their leader, the tall white-haired man who told them to call him Salacia, had asked Mäch to come early last meeting. Mäch felt strangely elated at this. Salacia had chosen him. 

Salacia was alone in the room, in his big leather chair. Mäch approached him and kneeled, casting his gaze down. 

Salacia said "Rise, my son."

Mäch stood up but still didn't quite look at him. He was almost a bit creeped out by the man, despite his admiration for him. 

"You consider yourself a part of our...our little family here, don't you, Orlaag?" said Salacia smoothly. Mäch could feel those strange eyes pierce his soul. 

"Of course, sir."

"I have something most important to tell you, but first you must do us a very small favor..."

When Mäch left with his instructions fresh in his mind, he realized that he hadn't seen Salacia blink once. 

~~~  
_April 1970, later_

"Orlaag!"

Mäch's head whirled around. He'd been staring outside again. Spring was finally here and the flowers were beginning to bloom, trees sprouting leaves, sky new and pale...He hated it with every ounce of his soul. 

His mouth fell open uselessly. He'd forgotten that he was in math class, not outside, wreaking havoc with Salacia. 

"Um...use the quadratic formula," Mäch said. 

The teacher stared at him, sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Orlaag, this is history class."

Oh. Make that he'd forgotten he was in _history_ class. Everyone around him giggled. He scowled, the back of his neck behind his shaggy hair turning red from embarrassment. 

"See me after school, Orlaag. This is the third time this week."

Oh, that's what she thought. 

Mäch glanced at his watch. It was almost time...

When the bell for the end of class rang Mäch grabbed his shit and went down to the office. "I don't feel that good," he said, trying to look pale and sick. 

The secretary eyeballed him. "You can call home for permission to leave."

"Uh, okay." Mäch did so. The phone rang for a while, leaving him frustrated. Then someone picked up. 

" _Hallo? Wie is dit?_ " It was his father. 

Mäch sighed and reluctantly deigned to speak Dutch. It was a good thing he was good with languages. 

" _Ik ben het, Pa. Kan ik thuis kom? Ik voel me ziek_." It's me, can I come home? I feel sick. 

His father sighed. " _Oke, oke. Kun je naar huis lopen_." You can walk home. 

" _Oke, doei_."

"I'll need to talk to them," said the secretary. 

Mäch handed the receiver over. She gave him a weird look that made him instantly mark her as a douche. 

The secretary and Mäch's father struggled to communicate. Mäch enjoyed watching this. He got the O.K. to go which was good since it was almost time, and he didn't want to make a scene. 

He shrugged his backpack up a bit further and left the building only to be accosted by two people skipping class outside in the front garden. 

"Hey!" 

Mäch turned around toward the voice. It was Ishnifus Meaddle and Serveta Skwigelf. He sighed and trudged over to meet them. He did have a few minutes to spare. 

"Hey," he said, unreserved animosity cracking up through his voice. 

"You coming to practice tonight?" Ish took a drag of his cigarette and blew smoke at the drummer. 

Mäch coughed, then rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. What d'you think?"

"I don't like your tone." When Ishnifus stood up straight he was taller than Mäch. This was new. 

"The sentiment is reciprocated," Mäch snarled under his breath. 

"What?" 

"Fine!" Mäch said. "I'll come to your shitty stupid band practice and hang out in your house and pretend...not to hate you." There. He'd said it. 

"What's gotten into you?" Ishnifus said with what could've been a smoke-obscured smug grin. 

"Ja," Serveta added. She was clinging to Ish's arm in that fucking annoying way...what a slut. Good thing they'd be dead in a matter of minutes. "You useds to be cool."

"I'm cooler than you. You dirty motherfuckers. I have to go now, I'm sick." He faked a cough. 

"You don't look sick to me." Ishnifus said, frowning. Mäch turned to go. Ishnifus grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back over, taking him by surprise. "See you at five tonight, right?" Ish said. 

"Whatever." Mäch tried to struggle away from Ishnifus. 

"You don'ts look sick to me, neither," Serveta added. 

"Fine!" Mäch rolled his eyes, desperately sarcastic. "Uh...my grandma's dead! I'm leaving to go to her funeral. Bye."

"You're a really really bad liar, you know that?" Ishnifus said. 

Mäch couldn't believe it. They were bullying him, the band leader. They wouldn't be anything without him and here they were treating him like a fucking...worm or something. 

"Just let me go," Mäch said. 

"Why? What's so urgent? What could be more important than talkin' to your bandmaaaates?"

Mäch was flustered, and it felt like Ishnifus was yanking his arm out of its socket. As much as he disliked it, even he would admit that he'd never been anything but hotheaded and easily confused under stress, and that showed now. 

"There's a fucking bomb in the building, Ish!" he spat out. 

Ishnifus and Serveta froze. "You're kiddings," Serveta said, trying to convince herself more than anyone else. 

"No! I'm not fucking kidding!" 

Ishnifus let go of him. He shook his arm out in an attempt to restore circulation. His gaze darted between the two of him as he panted, dazed and confused. 

"How does you knows that?"

Mäch stayed silent. Realization dawned on his bandmates' faces. 

"We have to fuckin' tell someone," Ish said to Serveta. 

"No, it's too late," Mäch interrupted. 

"Why should we listen to you?" Ishnifus said. "Fucking psycho. I can't believe you—"

"I suggest you run," Mäch said. 

And run they did. 

~~~  
_May 1970_

Mäch Orlaag supposed that other kids would be in school right now. Then again, other kids probably hadn't blown up their school, most likely hadn't killed both their parents and torched their house, and definitely were not now unofficially under the care of Mister Salacia. 

So, the band was dead. Serveta and Ishnifus were still alive, probably getting up to no fucking good, but Sørene was dead. Besides, the band had already died when that slut had gone off with Ishnifus. 

...Sørene was dead, his history teacher was dead, the bitchy secretary was dead, the coach who always called him Tiger was dead, and so were his parents. As well as a few hundred people whose names and faces he'd never bothered to memorize. Nobody knew it was he who'd done it—he was surprisingly good at hiding his tracks, which happens when your parents are ridiculously conservative and necessitate having things hidden from them—but when Mäch looked into his soul, did he feel a twinge of remorse?...

Hah. Yeah, right. 

He pulled a pair of drumsticks out from the front pocket of his coat and began tapping out a rhythm on the dashboard of the tan Ford Cortina. 

"Oooh, darling!" he sang along with the tune inside his head. "If you leave me! I'll never make it alone. Believe me when I tell you-oo, I'll never make it alone..."

"Cut that out," said a voice from the back of the car; one of the two other guys in the car, the brothers, either Scott or Keiran Peregrine. 

"Don't tell me what to do," Mäch shot back. "Oh! Darling!"

"Orlaag," Salacia hissed. 

Mäch rolled his eyes and tucked the drumsticks away. 

Mäch was thinking of changing his name, maybe to something still German (he wasn't quite as resentful toward his parents now that they were dead) but easier to spell and pronounce. Even Salacia, the omniscient Mister Salacia, stammered over all those consonants. He thought it would be better for him, better for the Tribunal. 

For the Tribunal itself there were no weekly meetings in hidden dark alleys any longer; that had just been the first stage. The weak had been weeded out from the strong, like chaff from wheat. Now they were on the move, looking for...

...looking for what, exactly? Mäch knew it had something to do with some sort of Prophecy, but Salacia's wording was very vague, almost seeming intentionally so. No matter. He probably had a good reason for keeping these things hidden. 

It was kinda weird, though. And they'd been sleeping in the Cortina lately, to save cash, and sometimes Mäch heard Salacia muttering strange things in his sleep, things about Mäch's previous band, and something about a star, and something about a collection. Mostly Mäch just pretended he didn't hear these things. It was probably all in his head, anyway. 

The car pulled to a halt beside a rundown shady-looking building; a gas station on the side of the dirt road in this little nameless town. They'd reached their destination. 

Without a word, Mäch, Scott, and Kieran stepped out from the car and walked into the gas station. Each one pulled a gun from inside his jacket in a synchronized motion. The man behind the counter backed away, hands up, wide eyes blind with fright. 

The group were having to do all kinds of things to make ends meet. Living out of a car could be expensive when you never stopped driving, especially when you're always looking for something you're not sure you'll find. 

Barely ten minutes later the boys came back out of the building and hopped back into the car. Kieran coiled the remains of the rope they'd used to tie the gas station man up around his hand. "Drive," Scott murmured.

They drove off toward another nameless little town, hours away. Every town was nameless when you spend this much time on the road. The occasional shabby little farmhouses faded away and were replaced by seemingly endless fields of wheat. 

"Where we headed now?" Mäch asked Salacia, counting out dog-eared twenty-dollar bills. 

"Seeing a man called Ravenwood about a prophecy..."

~~~  
_sometime in 1983_

In his bedroom in the shitty apartment he shared with Scott and Kieran Peregrine, Mäch was planning something. 

Mäch was trying to grow his hair out. It was getting darker as he aged and he didn't look so ridiculously ginger as he did before. He'd stopped shaving, too. He had a pretty good beard going on, even thought it'd only been a couple months. He was wearing a Duran Duran shirt, acid-washed jeans and white Adidas, but he still looked like someone from another age. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, star atlas in one hand, map of leylines in the other. On the floor was a pentagram scrawled in what looked like blood, with candles placed on the points. Crow feathers and herbs were scattered around on the ground in specific places. In the centre of the pentagram was a picture of Ishnifus Meaddle...Mäch had given up and torn that Polaroid he'd always kept of the band back when they were young to pieces. It would still prove useful, though. 

He struck a match and knelt to light the candles. 

Ishnifus would pay. 

~~~  
_November 1997_

The first meeting of the new Tribunal had just ended. Mäch, whom Salacia had introduced to the group as "Vater Orlaag," was feeling déjà vu already, even though there was hardly anything similar about it. They were sitting in this Stampingston guy's basement. Salacia was telling them what they'd be doing, about the Prophecy (Mäch as well as Ravenwood already knew about this, but the others didn't) in extremely vague terms. He was a master at using that kind of bureaucratic language that sounded great but left you with no idea what was actually happening. Probably the other members of the Tribunal just knew that there was going to be some kind of group of men with the powers of God, and they'd have to watch them, maybe protect them, maybe destroy them, depending on what was evidently nothing more than Salacia's whim. 

As the people filed out, Mäch darted forward to grab Salacia's sleeve. Bad move (the man hated being touched) but Mäch didn't care. Salacia turned around, the glare on his face piercing. 

"Why won't you tell them?" Mäch murmured. 

"Tell them what, exactly?"

"About..." He had to fess up. "About the band, and what the Prophecy actually says, and, uh, your collection."

"How do you know these things?" Even Mäch was frightened of Salacia, now; he seemed somehow bigger, an his eyes were glowing weirdly with rage. 

"Well, you talk in your sleep. Back when we were on the road I could hear you a lot of the time."

Salacia stared into him and said nothing. Mäch backed away, not sure if he should leave the silent man or not. 

"They deserve to know," Mäch said quietly. "It's just right, it would be wrong not to tell them."

"It's just right?" Salacia hissed. "What do you know about right and wrong, Orlaag? You killed hundreds of people, including your own parents...That's right. I'm not the only one who talks in his sleep."

Mäch rolled his eyes. "Oh, low fuckin' blow..."

"Get out."

"What?" For once, Mäch had been rendered speechless. 

"If we can't trust you, we can't have you in the Tribunal. I'm sorry—" he didn't sound sorry— "but we're going to have to let you go."

Let you go. Mäch's life flashed before his eyes. 

"Well, fine then," Mäch stammered. "I don't fucking need you and your stupid Tribunal. 

"I would start packing my possessions up if I were you," Salacia continued. "Scott and Kieran may not take kindly to living with a traitor."

Mäch growled and flipped a table over. "I'm not a fucking traitor! Fuck you, I thought we were friends..."

"You don't make it far in life by being friendly. I thought you of all people would know that."

Worn out and hopeless, Vater Mächtigenfällt Orlaag left without any more protestation. 

~~~  
_quite a while later, now_

"Sir?" 

Orlaag looked up from where he was wrestling a bear on the dungeon floor. "What is it now?" he panted. 

"Got a call on hold, sir," said the intern nervously. He was standing on the terrace that overlooked the dungeon, in safety, but he was still edgy. 

Vater Orlaag sighed. He suplexed the bear and it growled angrily. "Who is it?"

"Er...someone named Salacia, sir."

"Oh." Without a second thought, Vater Orlaag snapped the bear's neck. Its eyes glazed over and it went stiff. He pushed its lifeless 500-pound body to the ground and wiped some of the blood from his hands on his now-tattered shirt. "Yeah, I'll get it."

He walked up to his office, pulling the strands of his beard out of the braid he'd put them in and attempting to smooth his hair. He picked up the phone receiver. "Hello?"

"Orlaag," Salacia hissed. "How is the progression of the FalconBack Project?..."

 _Sigh._ This again. 

"I have a few of my best men on it, sir."

"You must hurry. Soon the stars will be in their correct positions. And the stars wait for no man."

"Yes, sir. It is nearing completion."

Salacia hung up. Orlaag sighed. He wished he could at least get a "goodbye" or a "enjoy your weekend." But Salacia was never much for all the banter Orlaag liked. 

Orlaag wasn't sure what the FalconBack Project even was, or why it was all down to him. He didn't know what was happening to Dethklok, although he did feel a vague misanthropy directed toward them. And he didn't know why he was supposed to have a drum kit made of dark metal and mermaid hide, something that his employees had to risk their lives for. 

Well, he'd find out in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the languages in this are probably full of grammatical errors and such, please forgive me
> 
> The words Vater Orlaag sings are from Oh! Darling by The Beatles.


	19. Rock Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot actually starts advancing. Nathan pitches an idea for the new album; Mordred and Seth get dinner; Magnus makes a phone call; Toki and Charles hang out.

William Murderface tapped the ash off his cigar and checked the time on his Dethphone. They'd been sitting here in the conference room for fifteen minutes now, waiting for Nathan to get his ass in here and tell them this idea that was supposed to revolutionize Dethklok as the world knew them. 

"Where the fucks ams he?" Skwisgaar blurted out what was on all their minds as he wrathfully plucked out endless spiders on his Explorer. 

"Fuck if I know." Pickles had his sneakered feet up on the table, and was leaning his chair back on two legs, gazing into the ceiling listlessly. A bottle of Jack dangled from one hand. My Dick the tarantula crawled over his freckled shoulders and through the jungle of his dreads. 

"And where ams Toki? How comes he doesn't haves to sit around here waitings for stupid Nathans?"

"He's going home with Charles from his therapy thingy." Pickles looked up at Skwisgaar. "Kid's pretty fuckin' fucked up. He's a trooper."

"How come Charlesh likesh Toki sho much?" Murderface asked as he fiddled with a hunting knife. "He'sh our manager. He'sh not shupposhed to play favoritesh."

"Yeah," Skwisgaar said. "Charles gives Toki hugs all the times, and he doesn't hugs any of us! Not that I want a hug. Hugs ams for dildoes."

"Guys, 'f I recall correctly, Toki was kidnapped and traumatized for ages, and none of us were. And he's like a fuckin' infant or whatever, I think he deserves a li'l special treatment, okay? Don't go be a dick to him," Pickles said. 

"I guessh you're right," Murderface said. "But I'm jusht shaying, if I wash traumatizhed none of you guysh would care—"

"Oh, enoughs of that!" Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Beside, you woulds probably be the one traumatizing a other people."

Murderface sniffled. "I think that'sch the nicesht thing anyone'sh ever shaid to me..."

Nathan hurried into the room, Abigail quick behind him. They tried to sit down nonchalantly. "Uh, hey guys, what's up," Nathan growled. He looked particularly miserable. 

"Nathan, what the fuck? D'you know how long you're keepin' us waiting here?" Pickles sat up. 

"We've just been working through some...issues," Abigail said. 

"Issuesh?" Murderface rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we fuckin' go. You're going to shtart arguing now, and then you're going to break up, and hit each other, and get back together, and hit each other shome more...jusht like my grandparentsh."

Skwisgaar sighed indignantly, his blond hair fluttering in the exhalation. 

"No, it's nothing like that," Abigail said. 

"Yeah, fuck you, Murderface," Nathan added. 

Nathan was fixed in Abigail's cobalt laser-beam stare. "We've agreed to act more professionally, like adults," Abigail said. "Right, Nathan?"

"Professionally?" Murderface stood up and pushed his chair over. "Fuck this shit!"

"No, just us two!" Nathan said. "Stupidhead."

"Can't we just talk about the fucking album and leave?" Pickles said. "I'm supposed to be getting my cock sucked in a goth club in North Dakota right now. C'mon, chop chop."

"Right," Nathan said. "Well. Uh. We thought we could, um, you know..." He rubbed his eyes. "Maybe sort of—turn what happened with the, uh, the Doomstar and everything, y'know, into an album."

They all tried to process this information. 

"That ams crazies," Skwisgaar said. 

"Guys, it's a good idea! What could be more fuckin' brutal than shooting deadly starlight out of your body, and blood and guts everywhere, and Assassins, and...and saving your brother?"

"I think he's right," Pickles said finally. "I think if we did it with a lotta respect fer Toki, a'course...maybe got some guest stars to only sing a couple lines each...got some orchestras and shit, I think it would go great."

"Like a concepts album," Skwisgaar said. 

"Maybe we could all have partsh to shing," Murderface said. 

They all looked over at Nathan. 

"Yeah, you all got it," Nathan said. "And get this. We could call it...the Doomstar Requiem."

"Fuuuck," everyone else at the table said. Abigail had a notepad out and was furiously taking notes. 

"Okay, band meeting, uh..." Nathan looked thoughtful. "What was that word again, Abigail?"

"Adjourned," she said.

"Yeah. Band meeting adjourned."

They all got up and left, murmuring disparagingly about how long they'd had to wait for such a short conference, but inside all their minds were abuzz with ideas. 

~~~

Across town, Mordred and Seth were in the Optima, stuck in traffic on their way toward the Church of the Black Klok. First, though, they were going to send Murderface to look around and make sure everything was clear...

Seth tapped his fingers to the Talking Heads blaring from the crappy speakers. "Are you done yet?"

Mordred shook his head, eyes screwed tight shut. 

"Ughh, I want a fuckin' cheeseburger."

"Can't mind control and order food at the same time," Mordred muttered. 

"Fuck. Hurry up...Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa fa-fa-fa-fa—"

"No singing," Mordred murmured. 

Seth blew a raspberry and banged his head against the steering wheel. Traffic started to move, and his foot anxiously hovered over the gas pedal. Eventually they ended up in a Dimmu Burger parking lot. Seth glared at Mordred for the better part of ten minutes, pouting. 

Mordred gave up, sighed, and leaned back. "It's no use. They're waiting in some kind of meeting room for the lead singer to get back. They've been in there for ten minutes."

"Well, can we get some fuckin' food? I'm starving to death."

"Fine, you whiny asshole. Let's drive through."

A cheeseburger combo and a black coffee. They parked back where they'd started and watched the sun set. Mordred turned the music up a bit. 

"Can't we just go in to the Church already?" Seth asked, licking fry grease off his fingers. "I don't see why we need to be all fuckin' cautious."

"My brother is hanging around the church, if you don't remember."

Seth scowled. "Yeah, I remember. But I could probably kick his ass."

"You can't kick _anyone's_ ass." Mordred smiled. 

"I'll kick your ass!"

They were silent for a while. 

_We are vain and we are blind  
I hate people when they're not polite_

"My birthday's comin' up in a couple weeks," Seth mused. 

"Oh, yeah? How old are you?"

"Not tellin' you." Seth eyeballed his partner suspiciously. 

"I'll guess..."

"Okay."

"I'll guess and if I get it right you gotta tell me."

"Fine. But you won't."

Mordred turned around and stared at Seth. His dark eyes were strangely knowing. Seth wanted to shy away but was too stubborn. 

"Thirty-four."

"Nah, too young," said Seth. 

"...Forty-five."

"Too old."

"So you're younger than me. Thirty—"

"Shouldn't you be doing your body-snatching shit?" Seth said defensively. 

"Yeah, yeah," Mordred said. "You're just afraid."

"Psh. No. I don't care who knows my fuckin' age, it's immaterial or whatever."

"Then why won't—"

"Oh my god, shut up and just do your business!" Seth threw a fry at Mordred. It got stuck in his hair. 

Mordred slipped into the trance again. Seth looked away. It always weirded him out when Mordred did that. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing nothing but white. Besides, it was strange to think that he was here and not here at the same time, and that he was himself and someone else. Seth didn't like the thought of it, but he couldn't stay away from it. It was the mental equivalent of probing a painful loose tooth with your tongue, or picking a zit until it bleeds. There was something irresistible about that squick factor. 

"He's finally out," Mordred whispered. 

"Oh, uh, good," said Seth. 

While Mordred was disposed otherwise, Seth took his phone out and typed _Magnus Hammersmith_ into the browser. He clicked the first result. It was a short but informative page on diefordethklok.com which told Seth that Magnus was the ex-guitarist of the band, fired after a nasty spat over some "creative differences" with them. He'd meddled in some other bands and a solo career that never took off before getting addicted to smack and disappearing off the face of the earth only to resurface and kidnap Toki Wartooth, the current rhythm guitarist of the band. He had been killed in the events of the Doomstar incident. 

Had he come back from the dead, or was Mordred mad? Seth looked over at him. At first sight you'd be more inclined to believe the latter, seeing the man possessed, sitting in lotus position in the passenger seat like a sinister urban yogi. But Seth knew him. He was the rational one of the pair. He was the one who reined Seth's fiery temper in and suggested much more effective and passive methods of revenge. Seth looked up to him, although wild yard wolves couldn't drag that fact out of him. 

Maybe Magnus Hammersmith was alive. After all, the dead could sometimes talk...

~~~

"Jericho?" 

"Oh my fucking god, Magnus, it's you again? I thought I blocked your number!"

"I'm calling from a pay phone. Yeah, apparently they still exist—"

"I'm hanging up! What the fuck do you want?"

"No! Wait! Listen, I need you to take me to the Church again, it's urgent, my objectives have changed."

"Fuck you. What have you done for me? You don't talk to me for, what, years, and suddenly you come out of the blue and fuck everything up. No, I'm not taking you there."

"Jericho...fuck. P-pl—"

"T-t-today, Junior."

"Please! There, I said it! Will you please take me to the Church of the Black Klok."

"..."

"I'll burn the photos, Jer. You can watch me."

"You probably made copies of them, you prick."

"No I didn't, how would I get fuckin' copies? What, do I just carry a photocopier with me out of the grave? Yeah, pennies on your eyes are all very good, but printer ink is more valuable?"

"They got one at the library, it's twenty-five cents per copy. I made flyers there for my cousin's Zeppelin tribute band the other week."

"Well, I wouldn't fuckin' know that, I don't make copies of shit! I didn't...look, I just need you to do this for me! I don't have time for this."

"Why? And why do you need me?"

"Your life is on the line here. Everyone's is. This is...vital fuckin' business."

"What are you talking about? Are you high again?"

"No! You remember the destruction caused by the Doomstar? You remember the tsunamis and tornadoes and plagues of locusts? Well, that shit's fuckin' peanuts next to what's gonna go down if I don't stop this! We're talking Armageddon here, seas of blood, evil being cast down from the heavens, all that nice shit, okay?"

"Since when are you all heroic?"

"People change...and I'm not the hero. Never was, never will be. But I need your help."

"Ughhhh. Fine, fuck. I'll come get you."

"Thank you so much, you won't fuckin' regret this...I'm beside the video store."

"Okay, I'll be there in a minute. And this better be worth it."

"It will be. I promise."

"Hah. Like your promises mean anything to me, you dirty piece of blackmailing shit."

"I swear on the Klok."

"..."

"See you."

"Alright. I hate you so much, God."

"I hate me too. Don't worry, you're not alone."

~~~

Toki gazed out the window of the submarine, eyes wide in wonder. The sun's dying rays illuminated all sorts of strange sea creatures swimming in an alien underwater forest. 

"Are you sure you're not supposed to be back at Mordhaus by now?" Charles asked. 

Toki turned around and sat the right way round in his seat. "Yeah, Nathans said it ams okay since I don't have any...creatives insput."

"Alright, I suppose," Charles said. "I don't know why you want to see my apartment, anyway. It's not exciting."

"Well, you sees Mordhaus all the times, but we never gets to see your house."

"Valid point," Charles said. 

They surfaced through the airlock and got out and walked through halls of glass and ice. 

Deacon Nix smacked Charles on the shoulder. "Hey! Workin' hard or hardly workin', eh, Ofdensen?"

"Er, right," Charles said uncomfortably. 

"Hey. Toki, Toki Wartooth?" Deacon Nix grinned at Toki. He was wearing a tie with a pattern of tiny Facebones' on it over his cloak. He stuck his hand out and shook Toki's. "I'm Deacon Hesperus Nix. Pleased to finally meet you."

"Oh, um, pleaseds to meets you too," Toki said. 

"Charles has a lot of things to say about you. They're all good, don't worry!" Nix chuckled. 

Charles sighed. 

"I'll leave you two alone," Nix said. "See you round. Hey, Charles, you goin' out with the boys and us Friday?..."

"No, I have previous engagements," Charles fibbed. "Thank you."

They kept walking. They went up the stairs into the tower, around and around for what felt like forever. Toki's calves burned. Finally they wretched Charles' cramped room in the steeple. 

"This is it," said Charles. "I know it's not much, especially after Mordhaus, but it's enough. Satisfied?"

Toki stared at the room. Along with the books that were lying absolutely everywhere, there were katanas, firearms, weird-looking fruits, all manner of strange vestal garments, computers, and (most importantly) strange instruments. It was chaos, but there was some strange order. Charles had to have order. 

Charles took off his jacket and tossed it on the bed. "Sorry, if I knew you'd be coming over I'd've taken out some wine." He rolled his shirtsleeves up. Below his collar there glinted a gold filigree chain. From this chain, pressed to his bare chest, dangled the circular amulet. 

Toki didn't answer Charles. The older man turned around. 

Toki was holding a mandolin, eyes shining with curiosity. "Hey, Charles, what ams with the funny grandpa's guitar?"

"That's a mandolin, Toki. Careful, it's vintage, 19th century."

"Wowee..." Toki bit his lip and attempted to strum the mandolin. It created a very small cacophony, his square-tipped fingers clumsily buzzing against the catgut strings.

"Here," Charles said, "more like this." He took the mandolin and produced a pick from nowhere, then strummed the mandolin. 

A smile dawned on Toki's face as he listened. "Hey, that's the one Leds Zeppelin song, ain't it?"

"Heh, yeah."

"What ams this funny squishy piano-box?"

"Oh, that's an accordion. Careful, don't drop it."

The accordion produced a hideous shriek. Toki started, then very gingerly put the accordion back down. "Oh, what's these big coconuts things?"

"Those are timpani." Charles wielded a mallet. "Here, wanna play?"

It was basically like drums, which Toki wasn't too good at. He lacked the coordination. Charles took the mallets after a while and started playing. Strangely, he was rather good at it. 

"How do you knows all these insruments?" Toki asked. 

"Oh, you just sort of pick it up when you're in this business, you know." No, Toki didn't know, but whatever. He was more than content to watch. 

Charles Foster Ofdensen, jack of all trades, apparently also master of all.


	20. The Starset Operation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred and Seth hang out and drive some more. Pretty much the only thing they ever do.

For what could possibly be the last time ever, Mordred pushed Murderface's body through the familiar motions, creeping through the dark and mostly-abandoned halls of the Church of the Black Klok. 

He saw a tall man going through and locking the doors, making sure nothing was out of order. (This was Deacon Nix, although he didn't know it.) The man's phone rang. He pulled it out of his robe pocket and answered it. 

"Hello?...Oh, Charles, hi." He sat down in one of the pews. 

Mordred possessing Murderface's body crept closer. The church was designed with high sloping ceilings so that any noise would ring out, apparently including people on the other ends of phone lines. 

"Hello," Charles said. His voice was faint and buzzing through the phone. "I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of the meetings and everything while I was gone, and if you want to leave right now I'll keep watch tonight."

"Oh, really? You don't have to do that—"

"No, it's no problem. And I don't like owing people, so it works out."

Deacon Nix snorted/laughed. "Don't like owing people...you're strange, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes."

"In a good way, a'course." The Deacon yawned and looked at his watch. Lavalight reflected off the crystal face so that Mordred couldn't quite see what time it was, but he assumed it was late. "Alright, that sounds good. The missus's been bugging me about how late I stay, anyways, she'll appreciate it. Thanks."

"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Nighty-night."

There was an awkward pause. "Er, goodbye."

Nix stuffed the phone back in his pocket. Mordred/Murderface stayed in the small supply closet until the man finally left, which didn't take more than five minutes. He heard the faint whirr of a submarine motor as the Deacon drove back to the mainland. 

Right. So, there was no one in the Church but Charles, who was somewhere far off, probably up in the spire where he lived. It was the perfect time to strike. 

~~~

Mordred opened his eyes. He was in a parking lot at some fast food restaurant, in the passenger seat of Seth's car. They were overlooking quite a lovely view of a bum getting murdered in the alley between a brothel and the library. The sun had set and the sky was a dark velvet blue. 

"It's time to go," he said. 

Seth looked over. He was annoyingly slurping every last tiny drop out of his milkshake, which made a loud sound. "It is?" Seth was nonplussed. After all that waiting Mordred had just told him like that. 

"Yeah. You can start to drive if you want."

"Sure, where the fuck we goin' again?"

"There's a beach near Mordhaus where you can see the volcano. It's a bit further away than it is to leave directly from Mordhaus, but it's not nearly as dangerous since no one knows about it...Here, I've pulled up the directions on my phone."

"Turn right on Tillmåns Drive," said the phone's robot voice."

"Okay," said Seth. He pulled out of the parking lot and followed the phone's instructions. "We getting a submarine?"

"Yeah. I know a guy."

"Cool." Seth fumbled around under the seat for something, clipping someone's sideview mirror off. He reached across Mordred's lap and rifled through the glovebox. 

"What...what are you looking for?" Mordred said. Seth's passport fell out and landed between his feet. Mordred picked it up. 

"Fuck, I forgot my CDs at the apartment," Seth muttered. "Ugh." He viciously threw himself back into his seat. "I fucking hate this day."

"Oh, hey, that reminds me..." Mordred pulled something out of his robe. Seth looked over, incidentally almost driving into a ditch. "I made you this. Here." He thrust it over. 

It was a CD with SETH MIX written on it in blue Sharpie. Seth looked up at Mordred. 

"It's a mix CD," Mordred said. "I thought I should make you one. Since we're friends, and besides I like making them for people."

"Oh," Seth said. "Nobody's ever done that before."

"Go on, put it in."

Seth slid it into the CD player and fiddled with the knobs. Loud raucous music rang out through the car. 

_Oh when the sun goes down and the moon comes up I turn into a teenage goo-goo muck Yeah I cruise through the city and I roam the streets Looking for something that is nice to eat_  
Seth grinned appreciatively. "Fuck, I used to love this song

SYSTEM ERROR

SHUTDOWN REQUIRED. REBOOT IN 5...4...3...2...1...

~~~

Seth was talking about the lead guitarist of the Cramps. He noticed that Mordred was being silent. He was usually silent anyway, but this was a weird empty kind of silence. Seth took his eyes off the road and looked over to make sure Mordred was okay. He was slumped over in his chair, eyes glazed over. 

Seth turned the music way down. A quiet robotic voice that was not the GPS app on Mordred's phone went "Engaging respiration."

"Shit," Seth muttered. It was lucky there were no other cars on the road right now. Seth swerved across every single lane before the car finally skidded to a halt on the side of the road, somehow facing the opposite way. 

"Engaging circulation," went the voice. 

Seth poked Mordred in the face. He didn't move. He pried one of his eyelids open. 

His eye was turned back in his head and on its shiny surface there was reflected strange alien creatures with antennae and twitching tentacles. Seth jumped and looked behind him but there was nothing there. He looked back at Mordred, whose eye was now brightly reflecting what looked like the Pleiades, but from a different angle then they usually were on Earth. 

Seth sat back down. "Okay," he said to Mordred. "Your robot implant shit is fucking up again so I'm just going to wait here until you wake up because I have no fucking clue what to do, okay?"

The still body in the seat beside him made no response. 

"Alrighty then," Seth said to himself. He wasn't sure what to do right now. Maybe put something in Mordred's mouth so he didn't bite his tongue off. He thought he'd heard that somewhere. 

"Engaging digestion. Engaging skeleto-muscular system."

"Shut up," Seth murmured out of force of habit. He found his wallet and decided it would be a good thing to stick in Mordred's mouth. 

"Engaging nervous system." 

He pried Mordred's jaw open and put the wallet in his mouth. 

"Engaging brain."

Mordred's eyes snapped open. He spat out the wallet and gasped for breath, then turned around, opened the car door, and started puking out it. 

"Fuck," Seth muttered. He leaned over and awkwardly grabbed all Mordred's long hair and held it kind of in a ponytail while he was puking his guts out, so it wouldn't get dirty. 

In a minute or so Mordred stopped vomiting and leaned back against the back of the seat. Seth found a bottle of water under his seat and gave it to him. He drank it all. 

"Sorry," Mordred rasped. 

"Oh my fucking god, stop apologizing, I hate it when you do that."

"Sorr—" Mordred managed to catch himself. He rubbed his eyes, then picked the wallet up. "Why was this in my mouth?"

"Uh...I dunno." Seth snatched his wallet back and shoved it in his pocket. 

"Are you sur—"

"How are you feelin' and stuff?" Seth turned the music back up. 

Mordred sighed. "Shitty."

"Dude, you have to fix that. That's the second time today that happened. You can't be fuckin' walking around and just all of a sudden go stiff and fall over while we're in the Church."

"We don't have time," Mordred said. "Just go."

"We can't go until you fixed yourself. That's a rule. I just made it up. Now do it."

"Just go! This is ridiculous!"

"No! You're a danger to yourself, and to me. Think about it. What am I gonna do in there if you pass out? Am I supposed to fuckin' grab your body and haul it into the submarine and drive away? No. I am not. Because I can't carry you since you weigh twice as much—"

"Not that much. Maybe 1.75 times as much."

"Whatever. And I cannot drive a submarine. And that stupid li'l voice would go on and be all 'Engaging...fuckin' whatever,' and it would wake everyone up. So fix yourself."

"Fuck you. Fine." Mordred turned the overhead light on and pulled a set of tiny screwdrivers in a case out of his robe. He opened the case and put it down in his lap, took a screwdriver, then pulled the bracelets off his wrists and inserted the tip into one of the tiny barely-visible screws in his synth-skin. 

Seth watched the whole thing. It was weird that below Mordred's skin lay not blood vessels and gross squishy bits but instead circuitry and wires. 

It didn't take more than 15 minutes for the operation to be done. It was pretty much a temporary fix, since to really solve the problem with his wiring he needed to get out the soldering iron, but electrical tape would work fine in the meantime. A couple times Seth had been almost scared by Mordred accidentally rebooting himself, but he learned to get over it, stay calm, and take the screwdriver/pliers/electro-nerve transmission tester out of his hand so he wouldn't injure himself. 

They were on their way again. 

"So, how much robot are you, anyway?" Seth said. 

Mordred looked askance at him. "You're not supposed to ask that question, I don't think."

"Why not?"

"It's insensitive or whatever. It's like going up to a mixed-race person and being all, 'How much Mexican are you?'"

"Well...I would probably do that."

Mordred sighed. "I know."

"Besides," Seth went on, "you're my fuckin' friend, you should be able to tell me how much robot you are."

"Well, if you want a quantifiable amount, around 40%," said Mordred. 

"That's a lot."

"I still have my brain and my eyeballs and all my organs and stuff. I don't have my bones, though. I have reinforced carbo-tanium-darkmetal alloy bones. They don't break."

"Ever?" said Seth. 

"Yeah. I still feel pain if you kick me in the shin or whatever, because pain is valuable, it tells you there's tissue damage. But they don't break."

"So, if we ever ended up in a garbage compressor like in Star Wars and we were about to be crushed to death, I could crawl over next to you and I wouldn't die because your bones wouldn't break?"

Mordred laughed. "Uh, I guess so. I never thought about it."

"That's awesome."

"I guess. But being a cyborg isn't all good stuff. People assume we're robots and we lack empathy."

"You do lack empathy," Seth said. 

"Yeah, but I did before I got turned into a cyborg too," Mordred said. "I was always like this. Anyway, since I'm not visibly a cyborg, sometimes people will tell jokes and stuff about cyborgs around me. And it's awkward. Like, do I say something and make them uncomfortable, or stay quiet and make myself uncomfortable?"

"That's fucking stupid," Seth said. "You're a cyborg and you're the nicest guy I know."

"I dunno. I guess they're just ignorant. And then if you say something to them, they say 'Oh, I have a cyborg friend and he said it was okay' or whatever. I don't like it. If they could just admit that they made a mistake it would work out better for everyone."

"Can any of us really admit that we make mistakes?" Seth said. 

"Woah. Getting deep here."

"It's true," Seth said. "See, lemme tell you something. I'm a dick so I understand how those guys think too, since they're dicks. When you're a dick the hardest thing to do is tell people you were wrong. We just can't do it. So those guys are probably sorry, they just can't say it."

"Maybe," Mordred said thoughtfully. "Anyways...I guess I just didn't ask to be like this. I just am. I dunno."

"So we should be getting there soon," Seth said, looking at Mordred's phone. "Just ten minutes or so."

"I still have Murderface hidden in a closet, but I think the two of us should be enough manpower," Mordred said. "And the sub should be waiting for us."

"Okay, lemme get this straight," Seth said. "We run into the Church, which is empty except for Charles. We tie Charles up or throw him out the window or whatever, bam, he's outta the way. Then we take..."

"Then we take the Starset Amulet, and the final piece of the puzzle will be in our hands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Goo Goo Muck by The Cramps


	21. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus finds the Church of the Black Klok, accompanied by Zarathustra.

The city bus pulled to a groaning halt. Magnus Hammersmith got up, stretched his legs, and stepped out the door. The night air chilled him to the bone. He still didn't button his shirt up.

Zarathustra the kitten jumped off the bus behind him. He bent down and scruffed its head. 

"Daddy's gonna save Dethklok," he cooed. "Yes he is."

He sat down on a bench at the bus stop and waited. He actually felt, well, not okay, but not full of angst and rage, either. Just sort of empty, which was a relief. 

Yeah, relieved, that was the word. He was finally going to attempt to redeem himself. 

Magnus had never thought of himself as having a conscience, but something had changed. Maybe it was just the robotic heart messing with his mind. Either way, he didn't want to actually have to talk to Dethklok (he supposed they wouldn't want to talk to him, either); he just wanted to ease this aching guilt. 

And who knows, maybe Charles Foster Ofdensen would help him find some way to die. 

"I'm here."

Magnus looked back. Jericho Frost was leaning against the back of the bench, smoking, aura full of quiet wrath. 

"Hey," Magnus said. He got up. 

"Hey?!" Jericho exploded. "I come here to drive your stupid ass around in the middle of the fucking night AGAIN, in a move that could get me fired, I let you mess with supernatural forces you could never understand, I just sit here as you fuck with my employers—and all I get is a 'hey?!'"

"I guess."

"Fuck you." Jericho started walking away. "I don't fucking care what you do with those photos. Show 'em to the whole world for all I care. I'm not letting you take advantage of me like this any more."

Magnus leapt over, followed by Zarathustra, and grabbed him by the arm. "Jericho, wait—"

"What _is_ it?!"

"I need you to do this. Please." With shaky hands he reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded dog-eared envelope and a lighter. Jericho was silenced. "Look." Magnus pulled out the contents of the envelope—a few blurry Polaroids of Frost and Dethklok's manager, photos that were quite compromising _indeed_. 

Jericho winced when he saw them. "Put those away, man."

Magnus did, and then flicked the lighter a couple times. It finally lit. Staring into Jericho's watery eyes that sparkled with the milky white-grey of confusion, he touched the flame to the edge of the envelope. The old dry paper caught fire quickly. When it was reduced to hardly anything, Magnus dropped it to the ground and let burn out completely, then ground the ashes into the pavement under his boot. 

"The fate of Dethklok and the world as we know it rests in your hands," he said to Jericho. "Now you can take me to the Church or you can sit there and do nothing. What will it be?"

Jericho sighed. "Well, when you put it like that..."

~~~

A short amount of time later, Mordred entered the Church of the Black Klok. He was holding his kitten, and he set it down on the gleaming obsidian floor. The animal crept around by his feet, eyes wide, nervous. 

Zarathustra was nowhere near as nervous as Magnus, however. He drew his knife. He wasn't nearly drunk enough, but the adrenalin coursing through his veins would have to do instead. 

The mazelike Church was surprisingly empty of human life. Magnus didn't know where he was going, but after a couple wrong turns he traced his steps back and thought he had himself headed in the right direction, toward Charles' room. He heard faint voices, and didn't know whether to be reassured or frightened. 

As he entered the main room of the Church a door creaked behind him. He whirled and saw a demon hurtling toward him across the room, a surprisingly familiar auraless bassist-shaped demon with glowing purple eyes. 

He was thrown to the ground; a moment later the man's heavy weight crushed his chest, pinning him there. William Murderface's knife gleamed in the air as, with deadly precision, it swung down toward Magnus' neck. With a grunt of effort Magnus jerked to the side. The knife clashed against the floor, chipping it. Blood stained the darkly shimmering tile. Magnus felt sharp pain; the knife had barely grazed his neck, but it had still cut him pretty badly. 

Magnus struggled out of Murderface's weirdly strong grip. He scuttled backwards on all fours like a crab. The bassist was unstoppably coming after him. Murderface smashed Magnus' head against the pew. Everything went sort of line-green for a second. Magnus was incapacitated with numbing buzzing pain. He vaguely recalled doing something like this to Toki a very long time ago, and he'd never thought he deserved to die more. 

He lay still as the man's hands tilted his chin up. The knife began to draw across his wrinkled skin. 

Suddenly: "MEOW!"

Murderface let out a wordless cry of pain. Zarathustra the cat had dug its sharp claws into the possessed bassist's leg and dug them in hard. Murderface attempted to dislodge the cat and was distracted for a few moments, long enough for Magnus to make some observations. 

Observation one: Murderface was clearly not under his own control at all. He was entirely possessed. Magnus knew the bassist, and he knew that he'd never have the deliberate stamina required to murder someone in cold blood like this. 

Observation two: the purple glow seemed to radiate through all the bassist's nerves, giving his skin a strange neon patchwork appearance, and the source of it seemed to be his right wrist. 

This wasn't normal possession. Magnus guessed it was cybernetics. And if it were cybernetics he should be able to remove the bug. 

As Murderface ripped the cat off of him and flung it away, Magnus struggled to his feet. He came at Murderface from behind and shoved him down. Even though the bassist was heavy, pretty muscular, and being controlled remotely, Magnus still had the element of surprise. The bassist stumbled back against another row of pews. Magnus shoved a knee into his back and yanked his arms up behind his back, eliciting a grunt of pain. Magnus saw the bright glow of the bug under Murderface's skin. He had one chance. 

Magnus drew his knife and roughly slit the skin of Murderface's wrist open. The bug fell to the floor and slid in blood that was the color of tar in the darkness. More blood wet Magnus' fingers. 

The bassist instantly stopped moving. He slumped forward over the pew. His aura flooded back, showing confusion and weariness. 

Magnus knelt and picked up the bug. It had tiny robotic pseudopods and a brightly glowing LED light. Fluorescent violet goo dripped from it. More of the goo was tainting the spilled blood, Magnus noticed. The bug squirmed like a maggot and tried to dig into Magnus' hand, biting at him. He cursed, dropped the bug and crushed it under his foot, grinding it beneath his heel until nothing remained but dust and purple robot blood. 

"Mmph," Murderface went. 

Magnus looked the bassist over. He was half passed out, and damp with what seemed to be scummy pond water. He looked like he'd been run over by a car and left to die, and furthermore like he hadn't slept in a fortnight. The wound in his wrist was gushing blood. 

Magnus didn't have time for this...but still, it would be self-defeating if he risked his life for Dethklok only to lose one-fifth of it. He guided Murderface to his feet and lay him down on one of the wooden benches, then ripped a strip of his own shirt off and wrapped it around the man's wrist for a makeshift tourniquet. It would have to do. 

Murderface blinked deliriously. "...Where am I?"

"In your bedroom," Magnus hissed. "Shh, go to sleep. You're tired."

"Mmph...Toki, ish that you?"

"Yeah, it's Toki," Magnus said. "Go to sleep."

"...Okay."

The bassist's eyes closed again. 

Zarathustra crept over to Magnus. He looked at the cat. It seemed alright, and even a bit chipper, purring as it nuzzled his leg. He petted it and felt that weird emotion again, that affection. "I'm sorry," he told the cat. "We're going to find Charles now, okay?" The cat meowed in reply. 

Good. Magnus stood upright again and surveyed the horizon. It looked empty. There was a spiral staircase in one corner, which must lead to Charles. He could indistinctly hear the man's voice. 

This just wasn't Magnus' day, however. Something hit him on the side of the head, stunning him. He was more frustrated by this than anything else. He looked around for the source of the mysterious assault. There were two guys standing in the doorway opposite him, also leading into the main room. 

"You can't throw your shoe at him! Oh my god!" one guy said. 

"Well, what th' fuck d'you want me to do?" another voice hissed back. 

"Uh, you've got a gun. That might be slightly more effective."

Magnus sighed and walked toward them. 

"Stop," the second guy said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked, in the darkness, like a revolver. He aimed at Magnus, the barrel shaking like he was standing in an earthquake. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

Magnus did not stop. 

"I...I fucking said I'd do it. I'll do it." 

BANG BANG BANG

Bullets ricocheted. The gun wavered down from where it had been aimed, at Magnus' chest. The robot heart had blocked him from harm. Its smooth-polished brass and crystal surface didn't even have a scratch. Zarathustra hid, spooked. Magnus kept coming closer, inexorable. 

"What the fuck?!" the second man, the shorter one, said. Now that Magnus was closer he could see him more clearly. He was wearing a grubby hoodie and cargo pants and had a small frame, and was trembling. 

"You missed!" 

"I—I didn't miss, Morty!"

"Shoot him again."

BANG BANG BANG

This time one of the bullets clipped Magnus' calf. He didn't stop. He was invincible. The gun dropped to the floor with a loud CLACK-click-click and the shorter man ran back where he'd come from and hid. 

Magnus stopped in front of the taller man, who was wearing a dark cloak that covered his face in shadow. Oddly, this man did nothing to harm him. He just stood there, actually shrinking away a bit. 

"I know who you are," Magnus said with a sharp smile. 

"No you don't." But there was recognition in the man's aura, too, and fear. 

"What are you doing here?" Magnus said. 

"That's none of your business."

"I think it is," Magnus said, " _Morty_."

Mordred Hammersmith flinched. 

"Who's your little friend?" Magnus asked. 

"Uh—no one." Mordred was ten again, and had just got home from school only to find that Magnus had taken all his Legos apart and fed his comic books to the hamster. 

"Right. And I suppose the Starset Amulet is 'nothing.'...Yeah, that's right. I know what you're looking for, you sneaky bastard, you."

"Fuck off." Anyone else wouldn't have seen Mordred spinning the rings on his fingers to reveal tiny hollow spines. Maybe bullets couldn't kill his brother, but brain-damage-inducing neurotoxins were always worth a try. 

"Go on, try to kill me," Mordred said. "No one can. I wish they could." He parted his shirt. The lavalight gleamed off the crystal heart. Mordred stared, silent. "That's right, I'm one of you. I'm a cyborg too."

"How—how'd you know?" came a tiny squeaky voice from the darkness under the black hood. 

"Well, one of you had to be controlling Murderface, and it wasn't that guy. Besides," he said, taking one of Mordred's unresponsive arms and brushing the sleeve of the cloak back a bit, "I can see the glowing from the implants in your wrists. It matched his."

"Umm-mm..."

"That's right. Oh, you don't like us having that in common, do you? You don't want to be like your big brother." Magnus grinned. 

"M-Magnus, you're like f-five minutes older than me," Mordred said. 

"It m-makes a d-difference, d-dumbass," Magnus mocked him. "Oh, I bet you begged them to kill you, didn't you? I bet you screamed bloody murder when you woke up with new body parts and phantom dimension pain."

"I didn't!"

"Don't lie to me," Magnus said. "I know you did. I know that under that hard shell you're just as much of a coward as I am. Don't pretend you're something you're not, Mordred."

The cloaked figure was silent, shaky, still. Magnus reached up and slowly pulled the hood down and laid eyes upon his brother. Pale skin that hadn't basked under the sun in years; sharp angles of jaw and cheekbone and temple mocking those of Magnus'; eyes sunken into sleepless caves; wet tear-tracks trailing into a dark beard. All gleamed under the red, pestilent lavalight. With steady, calloused fingers Magnus traced the face he hadn't seen since they were both kids. 

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Mordred gulped. 

"I'm telling Charles. I'm telling him everything. About Salacia, about the FalconBack Project, whatever that is. About you, dear brother."

"C-coward," Mordred whispered, "traitor, liar—"

"I'm all of those things, yeah, but so are you," Magnus said. "Don't kid yourself. We're the bad guys."

He grabbed Mordred's dark hair and pulled him close, then kissed him on the mouth. He tasted cold, like tears and black coffee and metal. Then he drew back. 

"They never needed you," Mordred hissed. 

"And I don't need you." Magnus head-butted his brother viciously. He heard a sharp crack. Mordred went limp and sunk to the ground. 

Wherever the small man with the gun had gone, he probably wouldn't be doing anyone any harm. He didn't seem like the brave type. 

Zarathustra crept out from the shadows. Magnus promised the cat some of his dinner, whatever that would be. The poor beast was probably traumatized by now. 

The faint strumming of guitars echoed down from the spire of the Church. Magnus picked up Zarathustra. His time had come, he could feel it.


	22. Bread and Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus Hammersmith won't be stopped...

"So...you play this? And then..."

"Thens the D, thens the B minors," said Toki, showing Charles how to play the riff. 

"Ah." Charles strummed along with Toki. "Okay, makes sense."

"Yeah!" Toki smiled over the "grandpa's guitar."

A faint whistling sounded from across the room. There was a hotplate stacked on top of a heap of ancient law textbooks, with a kettle on it. The water had boiled. "Oh, I'll make the tea."

"No sugars in mine, thank," said Toki. 

"Yep." Charles found a couple mugs somewhere in the mess and started preparing the tea with ritualistic efficiency. 

The warm yellow lamplit peace of Charles' room was disturbed. The two heard running footsteps outside the door. There shouldn't have been anyone else in the Church this late...Charles cursed himself for not bringing along the Dethtop computer that had all the feeds from the security robots' cameras on it. 

Charles turned the hotplate off and swiftly rushed over, holding his arms up in front of Toki, who was trembling with fright. Although Toki Wartooth was no longer his ward, Charles was still fiercely protective of him, willing to risk his life for him if need be. 

The door slammed open, knocking over a chair with a pile of books on it. It was Magnus Hammersmith. 

The ex-guitarist looked worn out and dead, which he technically was. He was bleeding from a couple gashes on his neck, and trailing blood from his leg. He wavered unsteadily, but the grip he had on his blood-dripping Bowie knife stayed strong. His dark hair was damp with sweat and tangled over his husk-like features, over the blind eye and the good one. 

Perhaps most strange, apart from the fact that there was a dead man in the room, was the ticking, shining, circular robot heart in the middle of Magnus' chest. 

Toki didn't scream, but he made a strange squeaking sound. His fingers clutched at Charles' shoulder blades. "It's alright, Toki," Charles whispered. But they both knew it wasn't. 

Charles pulled something shiny out of his pocket: studded brass knuckles. He slipped them onto his right hand and cracked the knuckles of both hands. He wasn't sure how Magnus had got here, but he wasn't going to leave alive. 

Only...Magnus dropped the knife, and kicked it over. It left a spattered trail of already-clotting blood on the birch floorboards. 

"I have something to tell you," he rasped. 

Charles panted, unsure of what to do. "What do you want?"

"I said, I have something to tell you." Magnus leaned against the doorframe, rather weak from blood loss. 

Charles could practically feel Toki going catatonic behind his back. He growled and jumped at Magnus, swung at his face. The combined force of the punch and Magnus' head smacking back against the wall made him go wobbly in the knees. Charles pushed him into the wall and tied his hands behind his back with the closest thing at hand, which happened to be Toki's scarf. 

"I don't know what fucked-up corner of Hell you came crawling up from," he hissed in Magnus' ear, "but I'm sending you back there." He yanked at the scarf, roughly pulling Magnus' arms out of their sockets for a moment before they snapped back in. "You're not hurting my boys."

Magnus panted. "I think that was a bit...uh...unnecessary."

"I don't. Now what do you want?"

"I told you! I need..." He spat out a tooth. "Fuck. I need to tell you something important."

"What is it?"

"Lemme sit down. I'm gonna—I think I'm gonna pass out."

Charles let go of him. He slid to the ground and stayed there, panting, slouched over. Charles picked up the knife that was wet with Murderface's blood, wiped it clean on his crisp white shirt, and held it ready.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Magnus gasped out. "I...They're trying to steal the amulet."

"What? Who?"

"My brother. He was a Revengencer but now he's coming and trying to take the amulet. I don't know why. And he's with another guy. They might still be in the Church."

Charles knelt and held the knife to Magnus' throat. "What 'other guy?'"

Magnus wondered what would happen if he were beheaded. He supposed the separate halves would keep living. Maybe he'd have to sew his own head back on. The thought of it brought him an inappropriate giggle.

"Keep talking," Charles urged. 

"I don't know who it was. He kind of had a Wisconsin-Australian accent."

Charles sighed. "Seth...Not him again. God."

"And I have something else to tell you," Magnus said. "It was Salacia who brought me back to life. He's trying to get me to find out how the Doomstar works so he can destroy it and defeat Dethklok once and for all. And then he promised to...to kill me again. But I needed to tell you. Since I'm dead, he can't see me properly, just like he can't quite see you, Ofdensen; so it was easy enough to disobey my orders. Even if I never get to die, I'm not letting any one of you get hurt through my negligence again. One death on my hands is more than enough."

"Is that really it?" Charles' eyes were cold and empty, shielded by the moon-gleaming glasses. His aura was indistinguishable, empty. 

"Yes! Of course it is. Why would I fuckin' come here and go through all this shit to lie to you?"

"Well. Here at the Church we believe...once a traitor, always a traitor."

Toki came out of his trance and pulled on Charles' sleeve. Both the men glanced up at him. 

"Don't hurts him, please," Toki said in a small voice.

"Toki, you don't understand," Charles said. "Magnus Hammersmith is a danger to you, and the rest of the band, and society."

"I understands!" Toki snapped. "I understands more than you does! I weres the one who he kept lockeds up in his dungeon for months while my bandmates pretendeds nothing was wrongs!"

Charles winced. "We were trying to find you..."

"Maybe you was. But you're differents from us. You know what I realizeds?" He looked angry, about to snap and go berserk on them. "Revenge ams wrong. Revenge ams what gots us into this mess in the first place. We gots to start setting things right."

Charles was starting to fade. "Toki..."

"Besides, I'ms Toki Wartooth from Dethklok, the biggest death metal bands in the worlds. You got to does what I says!"

"Oh...fine."

Magnus didn't care much. 

"Magnus," Charles said, "I have to tell you, I did already know about the plot to destroy the Doomstar."

"You did?! Why weren't you trying to stop it? Why were you letting me wander around? Dethklok could be _dead_ by now, or deprived of their powers. And you did nothing to end it?"

Toki looked up at Charles. "Ams this all true?"

"Go sit down, Toki."

"Don't tells me what to do!" Toki said. "Ams he telling the truths?"

"...Yes," Charles said, his voice ringing with defeat. 

Toki looked intensely confused. 

"You were hiding this from them?" Magnus said. "You didn't tell them Salacia was out to get them?" He threw his head back and cackled. "Oh gods, that's rich. You really thought it would be in their best interests to hide all this? Fuck. You can't make this shit up."

"They didn't need to know," Charles said. "It would just cause panic. And we don't need any more of that."

"You could of telleds us!" Toki said. "We could use our Dethslights on this guy!"

"Toki, we don't even know if the Dethlights would work on Salacia. He's not really, ah, human."

"But we coulds tries!"

"You know, I'm starting to think you're almost as bad as me," Magnus said. "Hiding things from your little dysfunctional family. If they died it would be your fault."

"Don't say that!" Charles snarled. He was finally losing his cool. "Don't you ever fucking say that! There'll be snowstorms in Hell before I turn against my boys."

"It's not that outlandish, believe me," Magnus drawled. 

Charles drew back and aimed his foot at Magnus' face. The ex-guitarist winced in anticipation of the blow that never came. Toki pulled Charles back. 

"I tolds you not to hurt him!" Toki said. 

Charles seethed. 

"Magnus?" Toki said. "Um, I don't know how you're alives. Maybe you're a zombie. Maybe I'm just dreamings this all right now and I'm gonna wakes up in a seconds. But I just want you to know that I forgives you."

Magnus shrunk down. "No, no, don't..."

"Yeah, I does. It ams okay. We all makes mistakes."

Magnus forced himself to look up at Toki. Toki, the innocent guitarist, the angel of death, the boy whom he'd hurt and raped and tormented in so many different ways. Toki was forgiving him. 

What do you say? Is there anything you can say? "Oh, about the whole torturing you and your friend thing, keeping you locked up and hopeless, using you for bait to lead your family to their deaths, yeah, remember that? Well, sorry about that. Nobody's perfect, haha." No, you couldn't say anything. And Magnus didn't want forgiveness. He wanted to suffer. In a way, Toki's gentleness was just as excruciating a form of torture as any more conventional method.

In the end, Magnus said nothing to Toki. But he did answer Charles. 

"I won't tell you what to do. If I did you obviously wouldn't listen," Magnus said. "But, waiting on the sidelines while your loved ones wander ever closer to their demises? Doesn't that seem a little like something Salacia would do?"

Charles took the glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're—" he choked on the words— "you're right." He gritted his teeth. "I'll tell the boys. And...and thank you for the information."

Magnus sighed and leaned back against the wall. He was feeling woozy from blood loss. "And one more thing. My brother and the other guy, they were using one of your band in their plan. Murderface. They were using him as a puppet. But I cut the bug, the mind-control chip, out of him. He's alright now, I think."

"What..." Charles gave up. This was all too much. 

"That must be why he ams actin' so funny," Toki said. "Tired all the time and that."

"He's downstairs in the Church. He attacked me. He passed out after I cut the bug out of him."

"What was he doing here?" Charles said. 

"I'm not sure. They had him standing guard when they were coming in to steal the Starset Amulet, I think." 

"We haves to go gets him!" Toki said. "Ams he okay?"

"I said I think he'll be fine," Magnus said. 

"Okays, but we still gots to...Hey! A cat!"

Zarathustra had wandered up into the room. Toki picked the cat up and petted it, smiling. 

"That's Zarathustra," Magnus said. "Be careful with him."

"Cute kitty. Hey, he looks likes you, he gots your...eye." 

"Yeah, you can have him, if you want. Just be nice."

"I will!" Toki was in his own little world with the cat, momentarily relieved from the intense mind-breaking stress of seeing his dead kidnapper alive again. 

Still holding the knife, Charles pulled his Dethphone out and dialed Deacon Nix's number.

"Hello, Hesperus?...yeah, I know I told you you could have the night off, but we're having a bit of an issue. What's that?...Yeah, I'm okay. And if you could call Nathan and get him to send over a couple Klokateers, too, that'd be good. Okay?...Yeah, see you."

Charles hung up and sighed. He looked down at Magnus, who was mostly passed out in a puddle of blood that was staining his pristine floor. He looked over at Toki, who was cuddling the cat and crying unconsciously while shaking. 

It was going to be a long night. 

~~~

The Klokateers and Deacon Nix finally arrived. The Deacon understood the situation completely. 

"Happens all the time," he said. 

Charles cocked his head. "Really?"

"Well...ah, no, in fact. It never has. But if you recall what was written in the Book of Mendaciousness, chapter 4 verse 11..."

"Ah, yes," Charles said thoughtfully. Most of the prophecies of the Church were so vague that they only made sense after the fact. Even Charles couldn't make head or tail of 90 percent of them. 

The Klokateers carried Murderface away into a submarine and gave him medical aid. Some of them scoured the whole Church for any trace of the Mordred and Seth, to no avail. Some of them stayed behind and put Magnus in proper handcuffs. 

"What shall we do, my liege?" said one of the Klokateers. 

"We'll take him down to the dungeon," Charles decided. He didn't particularly care what happened to Magnus. "Come on, Toki, I can't leave you alone in this place."

Toki followed Charles, the Klokateers, and Magnus down to the main level of the Church. The Klokateers half dragged, half pushed the dizzy ex-guitarist along. Toki wanted to tell them to stop being so cruel, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. 

They took an elevator down to the dungeon level. A Muzak version of Murmaider played quietly over the speakers. Magnus was blinking in and out of consciousness. 

"Charles?" Toki said. 

"Yes, Toki?"

"Can we maybe gets some doctors for Magnus?" Toki asked. "He don't looks so good."

Charles looked at Magnus, who slurred out "I don't fucking care."

"Er..." said Charles. 

"Please?" Toki begged. "Looks at him! Somesone tried to cuts his throat!"

"Fine." Charles sent a text message to Nathan telling him to send over some more Klokateers with medical expertise.

They got to the dungeon level, which was surprisingly pleasant for a dungeon. There weren't any spiderwebs or mysterious stains on the ground like there were in Magnus and the Assassin's dungeon, although there were some drains in the varnished concrete floor. There was a row of cells against one wall, and occasional banks of fluorescent lights on the ceiling, most of which were shut off, shrouding the room in shade. It had a very sterile atmosphere, and had no other people in it. 

Charles was keeping a careful watch on Toki in case he had a breakdown, but the rhythm guitarist was strangely unaffected. He had been crying, but seemed calm. He cradled Zarathustra in his arms. 

The Klokateers removed the handcuffs from Magnus and tossed into one of the cells, the one furthest from the staircase. They locked the door shut. Charles dismissed them. 

Magnus looked around. He was on a cot bolted to the floor. There was a table, also bolted to the floor, with a Gideon's Bible on it, and a toilet in the corner. 

"We'll send down medical care when the Klokateers get here," Charles said. He began to walk away. At first, Toki did too; then he hesitated, glancing back at Magnus. His aura was a kaleidoscope of colors, probably the most beautiful one Magnus had ever seen. They made uncomfortable eye contact. 

"I got one question," Magnus said. 

Toki blinked at him. They could hear Charles yelling in the distance. "Toki! Come on."

"Oh." Toki snapped out of it. "Yeah, what?"

"How come you're still living like this? Fucking around doing nothing all day, watching TV? When I saw the Dethlights for the first time I couldn't believe my eyes. You can kill with a glance and rule the world. You have the powers of gods. Shouldn't you be more...godlike?"

"Oh..." Toki thought. "Well, the Dethlights makes us tired when we use them."

" _Tired?_ " Magnus was incredulous. 

"Yeah. We can't go around doings that all the time."

"But you could be rulers, and yet you're sitting around on your asses!" Magnus was getting close to the prison bars. Toki backed away automatically and clutched the kitten to his chest. "You could be their overlords! The great unwashed will have no say in the matter, you could have been invincible. Why haven't you jumped the fucking gun?"

"Well..." Toki looked down. "We basically ams already gods."

Magnus' forehead wrinkled. 

"Well, you asks a stupid question, you gets a stupid answer!" Toki said. "And, uh, I'm not so sure we wants to be gods, anyway."

Magnus didn't say anything, but he retreated a bit. He ran his fingers through his hair, reframing his angular face. 

"I don't reallies know, Magnus," Toki admitted. "I guess we just procastrinateds or somesthing. It's not goings to happen, though. We got enough power alsready, don't we?"

"I still don't understand you." The anger mostly left Magnus' face. Now he just looked tired. Tired and old. 

"I don't thinks we can evers understands each other." Toki moved like he was about to leave, but something was preventing him from doing so... 

"What is it?" Magnus asked. 

"Um, I gots a questions for you, too."  
Magnus looked up, and the defeat on his pale face scared Toki a little. Toki'd only ever seen the man's eyes filled with what he thought was love (before the Doomstar incident) and then with hunger, depravity, dominance. This was new. 

"When that psychos guy at camp tried to murders me, why'd you save me?"

Something subtle in Magnus' face changed; his mouth tightened, his eyes were shadowed. "Like you said, Toki. We can't ever understand each other."

"Yeah, but I'll tries. I wants to know."

"Well..." Magnus bit his lip. "We needed you."

Toki's mouth moved silently as he tried to process this. "You neededs me? What d'you mean?"

"The Assassin and I needed you for—for bait, Toki. You'd have been of no use to us dead."

Toki sighed. "I shoulds have known..."

"Why? What did you think?" Magnus crossed his arms high over his chest, over the ticking heart that numbered his days. "Did you think I actually ever thought of you as a friend? Did you think I liked hanging out with you and playing your annoying video games and listening to your sloppy guitar? I thought I made it very _very_ clear that there was never anything between us when we took you and Abigail, but I guess even being abused can't get the idea that someone might not be absolutely head-over-heels for you through that thick skull...Don't start fucking crying. Don't try and guilt-trip me, Toki! I DON'T FEEL GUILT!" This was a lie, but Toki didn't know it. 

Yeah, Magnus still had it. He still had that little section of his brain that seemed to be wired directly to his mouth, that told him to say those hateful things which came from some unknown source beyond his control. He still had that ability to burn bridges before he could cross them. 

Toki backed away, tears in his ice-pale eyes. He was quivering, one hand clutching at his chest. Electric shocks of anxiety shot through that exquisitely colored aura. Oh, God.  
"I didn't mean it." Toki was quickly going into an unresponsive state. 

Magnus grabbed at the bars of his cage and tried to shake them. They stayed still, rock-like. "Oh, Toki, fuck! Wake up!" His yelling didn't seem to help. Toki wobbled a bit. Zarathustra dug his claws into Toki's shirt, scared of falling. 

Fuck. What if Toki fell and hit his head? And Magnus was back here with no way to help, and yet he'd caused this problem himself. God, he was screwed. 

Like an angel from heaven Charles Foster Ofdensen swept into the room and grabbed Toki. Toki clutched Charles like a drowning man clings to a life preserver, burying his face in his white shirt, inhaling the scent of bourbon, blood, and cologne. Charles was a bit awkward, never having been a hugger, but he handled the situation quite well and with ease that suggested this wasn't his first time. Charles gave Magnus a Look filled with utter spite and loathing. Then they turned to leave. 

"No, don't leave me," Magnus groaned. "Please! Please come back! Toki, I'm sorry!"

They didn't answer. Toki tried to look around, but Charles moved his head back, and Toki didn't resist it. 

"Toki! Don't leave me alone!"

They were gone, and he was here in the shadows, alone. He turned to face his own mind.


	23. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Mordred and Seth driving around being assholes. Salacia has a few more tricks up his sleeve. Dethklok, Abigail, Charles, and Dick have to figure out what to do now.

Darkness, but peaceful darkness, not like the oppressive blackness of the Church of the Black Klok. Smooth rumbling of wheels over asphalt. Cool air blowing through his hair.

Mordred blinked awake. He was in the car with Seth. The window was open and they were speeding down an open road into the night, with nothing around but trees and grass and gravel for miles. His head ached terribly, but otherwise he felt okay. 

He looked over at Seth, whose hands were clutching the wheel. He was leaned forward, tired unmoving eyes glaring at the road. Mordred was no expert at reading people's emotions but Seth didn't seem too happy. 

In the cup holders were a tea with an obnoxious amount of sugar and milk, a mostly-empty bottle of water with dried puke encrusted on it, and a black coffee. The mix CD Mordred had made was still playing, Siouxie and the Banshees covering _The Passenger_. 

"Hello," Mordred said. 

Seth looked over. "Oh, hey," he said, seeming somewhat subdued. "Good, you're okay. I was thinking about takin' you to the fuckin' hospital, you were out for a while."

"Oh, how long?" 

"Not more'n fifteen minutes, I think. And that's putting it on the generous side. Which is good 'cos I looked up what to do when someone passes out, and the Internet says that if you're passed out for too long you can risk brain damage. Does yer brain feel damaged?"

"No, but it hurts. Ughhh."

"Are you con—uh, concussed?"

"I don't think so. I dunno. Hey," Mordred said, "what happened? After, after you met my lovely brother and all that."

"Oh my god, that fuckin' guy." Some of the animation returned to Seth's weary countenance. He took a long slurp of his tea. "That was weird. Is he a cyborg like you?"

"Sort of."

"Yeah I shot him six times and he kept fuckin' coming."

"Seth, what happened after that, though? That's what I wanna know," said Mordred. 

"Oh, right. Well, I guess we sort of have to thank yer brother, 'cos if it weren't for him we might notta made it outta there alive," said Seth. "After he knocked you out he ran upstairs to tell Charles everything. I put you in a closet to hide you. A minute later I could hear screaming and shit but by this time I was trying to find a way outside to get the bass, Polaris, right? I fuckin' crawl through what feels like 400 yards of ventilation shafts before I find my way out onto the slope of the mountain. I remember where you hid it, since you showed me in some picture or other a long time ago, so I find it and crawl back out. By the time I get back everyone's downstairs in the basement...dungeon thingy...and they got your psycho brother locked up. So the place is mostly empty. I get you and drag you out to the airlock. The submarine was waiting there for us. We got back to the car, I killed the submarine dude and put you in the car, put the bass in the car, and started driving. And then you woke up and started askin' me all these fuckin' questions about what happened—"

"I get it, I get it," Mordred said. He leaned back and closed his eyes. 

"Headache?"

"Yeah. Plus it's a lot to process." Mordred yawned. "Hey, wait. You didn't do the incantations before handling the bass—"

"I was gonna get to that." Seth showed Mordred the palm of his hand. There were slightly blackened burns stretching across the tender skin. Blisters were forming already.

"Fuck, that looks bad. I think there's a first aid kit somewhere. Maybe I could burn some sage..."

"It can wait until we get home," Seth said. "It hurts really fuckin' bad but I figure that's kind of a good thing since it means my nerves aren't all burned off."

"God," Mordred said. A thought occurred to him and he smiled. "Hey, earlier you said you wouldn't be able to save me if I passed out."

"I know, I jinxed it. The universe hates me. Also you're really heavy."

"Sorry," Mordred said. 

"That coffee's for you, by the way."

"Yeah. I know. Thanks...So, other than getting attacked by my psycho brother and losing our pawn and almost getting discovered by Klokateers, how was your first time in the Church?" Mordred asked.

"Still pretty weird. I wasn't expecting it to actually look like a church on the inside," Seth said. 

"Yeah, there's a floor up in the top of the volcano for rites and stuff but most of the actual church stuff is there so everything looks good and they can get their tax deductions," said Mordred. "Hey, where are we going?"

"Just back to the apartment. I need to sleep, I shoulda gone to bed earlier lastnight. I probably shouldn't even be driving."

"I'll drive if you want."

"Fuckin' A," said Seth. He pulled over on the side of the road and they switched places and started driving again. "So," Seth continued, "what are we gonna do about the Amulet? Ofdensen is on our tails."

"We'll have to tell Crozier, and think up some other genius plan—and oh, believe me," Mordred said, "if Ofdensen were on our tails we'd know. He probably doesn't see us as a huge threat, if he even knows we exist."

"He has to know, though!" Seth said. "Magnus told him all about us. He had Klokateers looking for us!"

"I think if he'd really wanted to find us he would have," Mordred said. "Maybe he's just waiting to figure out what to do. I know I'd be pretty confused in his situation."

~~~

Around twelve hours later, William Murderface woke up as well. 

He was in hospital. An IV tube was leading into a vein on the wrist of his left hand. The wrist of his right hand was throbbing with low pain, and had gauze wrapped around it. The TV was playing reruns of _Two and 0.67 Men_ quietly. 

He looked around, and pushed himself up slightly so he was resting on his elbows. He was immediately almost suffocated by someone flinging themselves at him. 

"Moiderface! You ams okay!" Toki squeaked. He broke the hug off and grinned at the bassist. 

Murderface patted Toki on the back. "Uh, yesh, I am," he said doubtfully. He looked around. The rest of the band were standing or sitting around in various stages of wakefulness. "Guysh? What are you doing here? What the fuck happened to me?"

"You passed out from exhaustion or whatever," Nathan said. "The doctor said you basically hadn't slept for sixteen days."

"I did shleep!"

"Well, not really..."

"What Nate'n's tryin' ta say," Pickles interrupted, "is that you were mind-controlled by Magnus Hammersmith's brother an' Seth—" he paused and spat on the ground in disgust— "an' they used you to try and build some kind of weapon to defeat us."

"What the fuck..." Murderface whispered. "What the fuck ish going on!"

"Jest don't worry. Charles can prob'ly explain better than me," Pickles admitted. "He should be back soon. He went to get us coffee."

"We stayeds up all nights in shifts to make sure you was okay," Toki said. "Except Skwisgaar."

The Swede was snoring lightly in a chair, practicing guitar in his sleep. 

"You were...worried about me?" Murderface said. He savored the unfamiliar words.

"Yeah, well, yunno, you're part of the band," Pickles said. "'Course we're worried. We care about you. Not in a gay way or anything."

"Yeah, you ams our brothers too!" Toki said cheerfully. Nathan nodded.

Skwisgaar woke up and said "Moidaface, I useds your razor to shaveds my balls...oh, and all that mushy gross brothers stuff too."

William Murderface ignored that last remark, leaned back into the stiff hospital bed and smiled. It felt good to have a family. 

~~~

But where was Salacia during all this, while the master plan seemed to be going awry?

As it happened, the half-man was busy casting spells. It was hard work, bringing people back from the dead, especially when they'd been dead for three seasons and a musical special. And it took years off your own life—but that didn't matter when you were immortal. 

Cardinal Ravenwood had been spurned from Salacia's Collection. His empty eggshell body lay deep underground, hidden in a dark forest which was the half-man's destination. 

A flash of purple flame—and they were present. The forest went quiet in awe, or maybe in terror. In an instant, arcs of lightning shot from Salacia's fingertips and curved across the ground, forming a rough pentagram. They concentrated. Mud stained red with blood oozed forth from the carved lines of the pentagram, as if the very earth were being wounded. 

At first nothing happened. Then a pair of stiff, decaying hands crawled out of the ground...Slowly, a white shrouded figure disinterred itself. Its robe was stained with rusty blood. Worms crawled in its empty eye sockets. Its grey paper-thin skin was eaten away as if by moths. Cardinal Ravenwood rose from the musty earth. 

_"What is thy bidding, master?"_

Oh, it had only just begun. 

~~~

Charles had explained in great detail what had happened to Murderface, including a summary of the FalconBack Project. The band and Charles had decided to hold a conference and plan out what to do about it all, but right now Charles had important and ineffable business calls to make for the Church of the Black Klok, so Dethklok were waiting up out of the way in Charles' room. 

Murderface had pushed the whole mind-control thing into his dark, murky subconscious. Sure, he felt violated and hurt, and he'd probably never completely recover from the mental trauma, but there were more important things to worry about...

"What d'you mean I can't have any more funding for Planet Pishh!" Murderface whined to Abigail. 

"I mean exactly what it sounds like I mean!" Abigail snapped. "Face it, your solo project is never going to get off the ground, okay? Just move on."

"Yeah, Willy baby, move on," Dick Knubbler murmured. He sniffled and wiped his nose nervously. He had found some leftover bits of the spare Gears from the Black Klok and had crushed them up and snorted them. He wasn't feeling too hot. 

"Move on?! Are you inshane? I wrote a shong that'll blow your mind, okay? Like, literally. Your brainsh will exshplode becaushe of how good it shounds."

"Yeah, Abigail sweetie, maybe you should give him another chance," Dick said. He wiped at his nose again. His cybernetic eyes were slowly turning yellow. 

"Murderface," Abigail said, "does the song include the words 'piss,' 'dick,' 'booze,' or 'shit?'"

"Umm...maybe," Murderface said. 

"Does it have all those words?" 

"Yesh," Murderface said sadly. 

"Does it consist of any words besides those ones?"

"It hash a couple and'sh and the'sh!" Murderface said defensively. 

"Then I don't wanna hear it, and neither does anyone else! End of discussion!"

"Yeah, end of discussionnnnn," Dick mumbled. 

"And you shut up!" Abigail said to Dick. "Are you just agreeing with everything everyone says?"

"Has anyone really been far even as decided to use even go want to do look more like?" said Dick. 

"I'll hears your song, Moiderface," Toki said to William. Of course, he'd had quite a large part in writing said song. "Looks what I found! Five-strings grandpa's guitars type bass!" He held up an acoustic bass. 

Murderface took the bass. He stroked its smooth surface reverently. "Okay, aweshome!" he said. He sat on the bed beside Zarathustra, who was urinating on Charles' freshly made bed. He couldn't remember any of the words to his song. He decided to just make something up, and played a couple notes experimentally. "Uh," he said. "Um...

"Thish ish a shong that I wrote for my band,  
I got Toki Wartooth to lend me a hand,  
But now our heartsh are bein' crushed by The Man,  
Abigail shaysh that we're not in demand. 

"Aaaaabigail! We'll show you who rooooock! 

"Um...la la la la  
La la la,  
pissh...  
boozhe...kickin'  
People in the dick!  
Yeah, we'll show you who rock!"

Across the room, Nathan, Pickles, and Skwisgaar were gathered around Charles' computer. Pickles was playing _Guerrilla Zombie Werewolf Battle for the Oracle of Flame Part Three: Guerrilla Zombie Werewolf Apocalypse_ on the Dethtop. He mashed the keyboard furiously, head bowed and shoulders slouched with concentration. Nathan and Skwisgaar watched. 

"Oh my god," Nathan growled, glaring over at Murderface. "He sucks. He sucks so fucking much I can't believe it. I actually can't. It...it escapes my mind how anyone could ever possibly be so all-encompassingly awful at anything." He took a drink of his Explosiontini. (This was a drink he'd made up. It consisted of vodka, gin, tonic water, the blood of a virgin, and just a bit of speedball, add lemon to taste.)

"Why don'ts you, you know, tells him how much he sucks?" Skwisgaar said. The dark circles under his blue eyes were even heavier than usual from trying to stay up all night.

"Hey! Murderface!" Nathan shouted. "Your song blows!"

"Nathan shucked my dick lasht night!" Murderface sang loudly. "I washn't gonna let him but he put up a fight, his latent homosexshuality and daddy issues made him shwallow it all I didn't need any tissues—"

"Oh my god, you're just making that up! I would never do that, you gross gay asshole...And your rhyme schemes are totally basic! What's with this A-A-B-B shit, are we still in kindergarten?" Nathan vengefully downed the rest of his drink. 

"Dude, jest ignore him," Pickles said, mouse-clicking at supersonic speeds. "When you respond it jest encourages him, or whatever."

"Pff, you sucks at this game," Skwisgaar said to Pickles. 

"Pff yourself, douchebag. Like you could do any better."

"I could! Watches me!" Skwisgaar darted over and started hitting keys at random. Pickles attempted to hit him while trying to save himself. A loud bleep emanated from the Dethtop's speakers, followed by 8-bit zombie werewolf noises. 

"Fuck you, Skwisgaar!" Pickles yelled. "You made me die!"

"I didn'ts! You made yourselfs die! That's how much you sucks at this stupid dildoes zombie game!"

"I was gonna beat my high scoooore!" Pickles wailed. He sunk his head into his hands. 

"Uh...whatevers," Skwisgaar said. He returned to his guitar. 

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Abigail groaned as she walked past. Dick had passed out and she was dragging him to the bed. Vomit the color of mercury dribbled from his mouth. 

"Same," Nathan murmured. "Oh, hey, you doing anything after this?"

"No, how about you?"

"Me neither. We could get dinner."

"Gross," Skwisgaar said. 

"Pickles, you're turning into a penguin," Dick groaned. "Stop it."

"What is he on," said Pickles, "and where can I get some?"

But he never found out, as at that very moment Charles Foster Ofdensen came in. He was accompanied by a couple of Klokateers, whom he dismissed as he entered. He was wearing his ceremonial robes and the Starset Amulet glimmered on a chain around his neck.

"Hello, boys. Dick. Abigail." Charles looked around. His room was a mess. He sighed; a vein in his forehead throbbed. "You...having fun?"

"Skwisgaar is bein' a dick," Pickles said. 

"Well, Pickle won't lets me have a turn playings the game!" Skwisgaar retorted. 

"That's not my fault, you said you didn't want on the computer. You let me go on instead," said Pickles. 

"Murderface is singing songs that are very...not true," said Nathan. "He's making up stupid things about us."

"No, jest about you, Nate'n."

"That's even worse! He's, like, targeting me!"

"Toki'sh cat pisshed on the bed!" Murderface said. 

"Oh, yeah?" Nathan snarled. "Why don't you write a song about it, dickweed?"

"Nathan, if you're so mads about it, why don't you writes a song for revenge?" said Toki. 

"I can't make up rhymes on the spot like that," Nathan said. "It's hard. It takes a long time. Besides, I'm gonna be the bigger man here."

Abigail snickered at him. 

"Alright, could everybody please calm down?" Charles said. "We have to decide what we're going to do about Salacia. If you keep behaving like this we're not going to get anywhere."

"Who'sh Shalachia?" Murderface said. He and Toki came over to stand with the rest of the group.

"He's the guy who killed Roy Cornickleson, the evil wizard guy who's tryin' to steal our powers!" Pickles said. "Right, Charles?...Also, please don't say his name again. I already had a shower today."

"What?" Murderface sputtered indignantly. 

"Correct enough," Charles said. 

"Wait, you said Magnus came back to life or something like that," Nathan said. 

"Nathan," Charles began, "I'm not sure Toki—"

"No, ams okay," Toki said. "Yeah, Magnus came back to life. He gots a robot heart now, he's un-killsable."

"Are you, uh, coping with that alright?" Nathan said. 

"I just don't thinks about it," Toki said. His lower lip trembled, and he bit down on it to make it stop. 

"That's pretty fuckin' brutal, man," Nathan said. He frowned. "Would make a great album cover."

"Yeah, I guess," Toki said. 

"Boys, let's stay on topic," Charles said. 

"I think if Magnus—" Toki winced when he heard the name— "is still in the dungeon or whatever, I think...we should get rid of him," Pickles said. 

"Pickles, he's immortal," Abigail said. 

"No, not like that!" Pickles said. "Like, ship him off somewhere! Or put concrete boots on him and send him to sleep wit' the fishes."

"We're not getting rid of him," Charles said. "He may have valuable information, and we can't have him roaming the streets."

Murderface felt something collide with his back. He jumped. It was Toki attempting to hide in his vest. 

"I'm sorrys," Toki whimpered. "I just—"

"I've got Xanax in the top shelf in the bathroom cabinet," Charles said. Toki left. Pickles attempted to follow him, but Nathan yanked him back to his place. "Guys, we have to do something about Salacia. You can't just sit here, these are life-and-death matters we're talking about," Charles continued. 

"If Shalachia endsh up actually deshtroying the Doomshtar, what happensh?" Murderface said. 

"We're not absolutely sure," Charles said, choosing his words carefully. "It might have no effect on you at all at this point. It might take your powers away. It might kill you, and cause a worldwide catastrophe, an apocalypse." Toki came back into the room and flinched at the harsh words. "It would almost definitely be in all of our best interests to do whatever we can to stop Salacia."

"What abouts you?" Skwisgaar said. "Ams you doin' anything to stops this guy?"

"We have a team of scientists investigating the Doomstar and the Dethlights, in fact," Charles said. "As soon as they find out anything at all about them it comes directly to us. And we have...well, we have contacts with former Revengencers. In fact, Magnus Hammersmith has been quite a bit of help to us in our endeavors. We don't exactly know where Salacia is, but we can predict when he's going to strike."

"We hafta stop him, then," Pickles said. "I vote we track him down an', yunno, fire up the old Dethlights."

"Or we could jusht wait and not get ourshelvesh killed," Murderface said.

"Hey, man, you're the one who's always goin' on about that morbid suicidal crap!" Pickles spat. "You should be rarin' to go."

"Yeah, but I'm goin' out on my own termsh," Murderface growled. 

"Moidaface, we haves to stop this guy," Skwisgaar said. "C'mon. We rescueds Toki, we can stops this guy no problems!"

"Skwisgaar, you _would_ rush into this," Toki said. He was nursing a a bottle of liquor he'd found somewhere. 

"What ams you insimyouatings?" Skwisgaar said, bristling. "Does you thinks I ams impulsives and heads-strong?"

"Yeah, basicallys," said Toki.

"I can't believes you! I don't needs this kinds of negativity in my life!"

"Abigail, what ams you thinks?" Toki said. 

"The decision has to come down to the band," Abigail said. "I'm remaining impartial."

Everyone looked at Nathan, who would have to break the tie. 

Nathan sweated nervously. It was at times like these that he wanted to start wildly yelling and jump out of the nearest window. He wasn't good under pressure; he was more of a go-with-the-flow type of guy. He tended to stammer when making decisions, and just do what everyone else wanted to do, which didn't often turn out to be the right decision. Unfortunately, Charles' apartment was in a volcano and did not have any windows to for Nathan defenestrate himself through. 

"Uh..." he said. "I think...okay, guys, I think we need to get ready for the shit to hit the fan. Because I won't sit here and do nothing if this guy creates an...an apocalypse of metal. We know we can be heroes, and it's our duty to stand up to Salacia. We have to protect the Doomstar.

"But I also think it would be really fucking dumb to hunt this guy down when we don't know what could happen. So I think we need to find out everything we can and then we need to confront this guy, work things out..." His green eyes narrowed. "Maybe he'll end up dead. Maybe we will. But if we die we'll die protecting the world from this guy. And we won't go down without a fight."

Charles nodded slowly. Then: "Nathan, I always knew there was a reason you were the leader of this band."

"Fuck, I'm not the leader, I'm just the, uh, spokesdude," Nathan murmured. 

"Does that sound like a feasible plan to everyone?" Charles said. 

"I'm in," Pickles said. 

"Me toos," Toki said. 

"Whatever," Murderface said. 

Skwisgaar nodded, too busy making up riffs to think up a proper response. 

"Very well, then," Charles said. "We'll find out as much as you can and we'll keep you updated. In the meantime, you should practice using your Dethlights. Oh, and one more thing. We've determined that the Church is sort of a blind spot to Salacia. He can't telekinetically detect human movement within the Church, but he can elsewhere, so we must heavily warn you not to leave the Church, as in doing so you will be risking your lives."

"We're all stuck here?" Pickles said. 

" _Togethers?_ " Skwisgaar said. 

"But we got a show in two daysh!" William said. 

"I'm afraid that's how the cookie crumbles," Charles said. "We'll figure out the show, and I'll try and hook you up with separate bedrooms. I can't promise anything, however."

"I have to sleep in a room with these guys?" Abigail gasped. 

"I call the bathtub," Dick rasped from where he'd fallen on the floor. 

"I am truly sorry," Charles said. He snickered. "Oh, I've got a meeting five minutes ago. Stay out of trouble, boys, Abigail, Dick. Roger, over and out." He walked out the door. 

"That's lame!" Nathan called after him. "You're lame!"

He looked at the room around him. His girlfriend/manager was pounding on the door of the bathroom, which was occupied by his indigestion-ridden bassist. His co-producer was throwing up in his boots. His drummer was replaying a stupid computer game for the hundredth time. His guitarists were trying to strangle each other with pillows over who got to hold the kitten. And they were on the brink of possible worldwide destruction. 

Nathan sighed. It was going to be a long day.


	24. The Skyhunter Wanders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred wallows in despair. Skwisgaar explores the Church of the Black Klok.

"I just got off the phone with Crozier. He's still pissed at us," Mordred yelled from the living room, where he was organizing his Monty Python DVD collection. 

"I know," Seth replied from the kitchen, where he was making peanut butter cookies. "He's always pissed off at us about something."

"This time it's important," Mordred said. "We told him we'd have the Starset Amulet soon and we don't have it. And he's freaking out about an eclipse, and the planets aligning, or something."

"Tell him to stuff it up his ass!" Seth yelled, angrily creaming sugar and peanut butter. 

Mordred put his DVDs back on the top shelf of the entertainment system where Seth couldn't reach them. He came into the kitchen and casually swung himself up onto the counter and dangled his legs. The counter did not appreciate having a rather large person made partly of carbo-tanium-darkmetal alloy sitting on it. It groaned and creaked loudly. 

"You always say that," Mordred said. "We need to actually do something. We need to have another fucking brilliant idea. Security around the Church has increased hundredfold now that Dethklok are stuck in there, and our window of time is narrowing."

"Hold on, I'm having an idea," Seth said. "How about we just...take the money and run?"

"Take the money and run?" Mordred was incredulous. "Have you no dignity? Have you no honor?"

"Nah."

"...Me neither. But Crozier will kill us if we don't finish this job. And I mean literally kill."

"Why'd I fuckin' take this job in the first place?" Seth asked the heavens. He started dolloping cookie dough onto the pan. 

"Because you wanted revenge," Mordred said. "And you wanted the money. We both took this job because we were petty and greedy and look where it got us. We're gonna die, Seth." He sighed and rested his head on his hands. 

"I'm usually not much for lookin' on the fuckin' bright side of life or whatever," Seth said. "But something good did come out of this fuckin' mess. You met me."

Mordred uncovered one eye. Seth was making a weird face and wiggling his eyebrows. He had cookie dough on his nose. Mordred laughed a little bit. 

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Seth said. He put the cookies in the oven and started washing his hands. "You always do."

"I dunno. We could try to...no, no, that wouldn't work. Or maybe we...no, that's stupid."

"Dude, you're fucking shooting yourself down," Seth said. 

"I'm sorry! I can't help it!"

"And don't apologize!"

"Sorry!"

~~~

For anyone, being trapped in a building with Dethklok would be horrible. Every member of the band was an obnoxious man-child. Charles Foster Ofdensen knew that it was like herding cats, except all the cats were the size of full-grown men and were at any given moment most likely high/drunk, and surrounded by groupies and lots of money to make bad decisions with. 

For Skwisgaar Skwigelf, being trapped in the Church with his own bandmates was a waking nightmare. When he wasn't on stage wearing that familiar mask of the glowing guitar god, he was actually pretty introverted and reclusive. He appreciated his alone time, but here he couldn't get any. 

They couldn't even get any sluts in here, the security measures were too strict and no one was supposed to come in except for important Church matters. Skwisgaar had jacked off four times today. He'd played the setlist for their upcoming show three times. He'd taken six showers. He'd eaten an incredible amount of lactose-free ice cream. It was only two in the afternoon. He wondered if it were actually possible to die from boredom. 

He was sitting on the floor beside the door out of Charles' apartment. Everybody else was preoccupied. An idea struck his admittedly not-too-brilliant brain. 

He stood up. "Guys," he said very quietly, "I'm just goings to pops out for a minute, looks around, okay?"

No one answered. Skwisgaar slung his guitar on its strap over his back and left to explore the Church. 

There were quite a lot of mysterious supply closets which he peeked into. Most of them had spare furniture or very large stacks of books in them. One gave him a weird vibe, so he stayed away from it. 

He stared up at the majestic stained-glass portrait of the band behind the podium which had stood there since the very beginning of the Church itself. He squinted at it. They'd gotten his nose a bit too big. 

He wandered through countless strange abandoned tunnels, peeked into vestries, examined altars. He passed many Church staff and a few Klokateers. All went strangely silent when walking past Skwisgaar, then continued talking in hushed voices when they were behind him, leaving him with a weird feeling of exclusion. He made his way up to the very top of the volcano and stared around at the deep water surrounding him. He met a choir who sang songs he'd written, but in dismal dirge-like keys. He came back down to the lowest level and dangled his toes in the water that guarded them and kept them prisoner. 

Finally he went to go back upstairs with the rest of the band. Majestic and weird as the Church was, even it couldn't hold Skwisgaar's attention for long. He wondered if he had enough time to jack off again before dinner. 

Then he saw a door that he'd missed the first time round. Unlike most of the tall, iron-bound oak doors in this place, this was a very small unassuming door. It was painted off-white. There was a padlock on it, but it was undone. 

Skwisgaar opened the door. There were a set of steps leading into darkness. There was also a bank of light switches. He flipped them all on and the brilliance seared his retinas, so he turned them all back off except for two. Then he headed down the brushed-steel steps. 

He was in what seemed like some sort of dungeon. It was clean and well-maintained. There were drains in the floor, Skwisgaar didn't know why. 

Most of all, it was quiet. He hadn't actually been anywhere quiet since he'd arrived here. He sighed, the sound echoing loudly throughout the dungeon. Then he sat down on the stairs and began to play his guitar. 

However, he didn't have the chance to really get into it before a whisper from the darkness behind him said "Hey."

He almost dropped his guitar. He leapt to his feet and looked around. 

"Back here." 

Skwisgaar turned to face the voice. There was a dark figure reclining on a cot in one of the cells, hidden in the black shadows, which was why Skwisgaar had missed him. He sounded weirdly familiar. 

"C'mere," the voice rasped. Skwisgaar obeyed, although there was a little voice inside his head screaming at him (in Swedish) not to. 

"Magnus?" Skwisgaar said. "Magnus Hammerssmith?"

"Unfortunately, yes," said Magnus. 

Skwisgaar backed away.

"Hold on, kiddo, I got somethin' to tell you," Magnus said. "No, I said 'hold on,' not 'leave'...look, you coward, I got something important to tell you. About the Doomstar."

Skwisgaar stopped. "I ams not a coward," he said quietly. "But you hurts my brother and Abigail. I don't trusts you. So if you're just messings with me you can just fucks off, okay?"

"No, it's true," Magnus said. "Come a bit closer, though. It hurts to talk this loud."

Skwisgaar stepped closer, holding his guitar out to shield himself. The Klokateers had stitched up Magnus' wounds, washed him, and given him some different clothes (black jeans and a Burzum T-shirt) but he still looked disheveled. His hands were shaking. 

"What ams it?" Skwisgaar said. 

"You got any smokes?" 

"I'm getting feds up with you reals fast!" Skwisgaar snarled. 

"Okay okay! But first...Come to the dark side, Skwisgaar."

Skwisgaar frowned. 

"Nah, I'm just messing with ya," Magnus said. 

"What ams the matter with you?!" Skwisgaar blurted. "We trappeds you. You're doomeds to die. Why ams you making stupids dildoes jokes about it?!"

"Well, you can laugh or you can cry." Magnus bit his lip. "Besides, we're all doomed to die, aren't we? When you look at it from very far away, you realize that we're all doomed to die. Even you, Skwisgaar. I just wish it would come sooner for me."

"That ams quites existentialist of you," Skwisgaar said. 

"Damn straight. You still reading those books I showed you all those years ago? Nietzsche and Camus and all them?"

"I prefers Sartre," Skwisgaar said coldly. Still, he took out a cigarette and lit it and gave it to Magnus, who took it gratefully through the prison bars without a word of thanks. It was a small gesture of goodwill that made Skwisgaar feel oddly guilty—after all, this man had kidnapped his bandmate and his producer. But it wasn't really Skwisgaar's fault; the ex-guitarist still did have a certain crazy-eyed charisma, even after all these years. 

Magnus chuckled through the smoke. "Sartre. You always were a lightweight. Still, two sides of the same coin. You dress oddly these days, don't you?"

"Uh..." Skwisgaar was thrown off by the change in subject. "Ams how i always dress."

"Not before I left. What's with all the black and the skulls?"

"I likes them. They ams metals."

"And what's with the solo on _Blazing Star_?" Magnus asked. (This was their latest single, which had immediately shot to #1 on all the charts.) "Seems a bit like something I could've come up with, no?"

"You listens to that?"

Magnus looked down. His expression could've been shame or defiance; it was hard to tell in the darkness. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I don't live under a fucking rock."

"What ams with all these questions, Magnus?" Skwisgaar said. "Can'ts you just fuckings tell me what you wanteds to?"

"Hold on, I'm just trying to make a point. I want you to admit something to me," Magnus said. "Everything you do...your thoughts, your appearance, your guitar style...everything you are, you've taken from me."

"What ams you meanings?"

"Oh, don't be so fucking dense," Magnus scoffed. "You thought you could fill my shoes. You thought you could be the new leader of Dethklok. The new, improved Magnus Hammersmith, eh?"

"That ams not true."

"Yes it is. You thought you could replace me, and you thought the band would be better off without me!" 

The two guitarists, the old and the young, stared at each other, bristling like two animals about to fight in the darkness. 

"And...you were right."

"What?" Skwisgaar said. 

"You were right. Dethklok was better without me. But you wouldn't have gotten there without me. So admit you lifted your vibe off me, and then I'll tell you what you need to know."

"Fine," Skwisgaar said. "Maybe I ams still intercested in the books you showeds me. And maybe I do dress like you dids, and I plays the guitars like you, a little bit. But I kind of lookeds up to you, at the beginning. I mean, I was just a kids. You were so much olders than I was. I guess I thought you knews everything what was cool and stuff."

Magnus was surprised. He hadn't been expecting an actual confession. It wasn't like the Swede was prone to emotional outbursts; if anything, he was the opposite. But, Magnus supposed, people changed a lot over time. Especially under all the stress of the recent events. 

"Okay, then," Magnus said. "Thanks. You're, uh...a pretty good guitarist and stuff."

"Only world's fastest." Skwisgaar smirked. 

"Okay. Now, I have to tell you that I don't know the answers to any of your big questions. I don't know what will happen when the Doomstar is destroyed. But I do know who does—who's been spying on you and reporting your every move to Salacia—and he's right under our noses."

"Moidaface?" 

"What? No. He'd be the worst spy ever. No, I think it's Deacon Hesperus Nix."

"The church guy who follows Charles around?" Skwisgaar said. 

"Yes. What the people who inhabit the Church don't know is that it was coincidentally designed perfectly to project all sound made within its confines to one point. And that point happens to be my cell."

"No shittings?"

"Yeah, no, come here..."

When Skwisgaar came closer he could hear voices inside Magnus' cell. He thought he heard Charles, and Abigail, and someone ordering a pizza, and the choir...He backed away and heard nothing but silence, then came closer and heard the voices again. 

"That's fuckings crazy," Skwisgaar muttered. 

"Yep. I hear every word everyone under this roof says. Most importantly, I hear every word Hesperus repeats back to Salacia. And Hesperus isn't the only mole here. There's also another one, a lower-ranking one, Cantor Briar Thorne. But Hesperus is the one you really need to watch out for."

"Holy shits. I gots to tell Charles abouts this!"

"Yeah, please. I don't know what I'd do if they got away with this." Magnus finished his cigarette and squished it against the brick wall. 

"Okay." Skwisgaar turned to leave, then hesitated. "I'm not forgivings you, by the ways."

"I know."

"Alright." Skwisgaar backed away and awkwardly stumbled over the steps, then ran away. 

Magnus settled back and listened to the voices and the ticking of his heart. His eyes fell closed and he rested. "Good kid," he murmured to no one in particular.


	25. Breakup/Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dethklok have a plan, but they don't know what they're doing. Seth and Mordred finally look like they're making progress toward Polaris' completion.

Mordred Hammersmith had whatever the evildoer's version of writer's block was called. He'd been in his little room all day, fucking around on his laptop, trying to think of any idea or plan that would get them closer to Charles Foster Ofdensen and the Starset Amulet, but no ideas presented themselves to him. He was frustrated, mostly with himself. He thought he was better than this. He thought they'd be able to somehow get the amulet, get that PTSD'd-up weirdo General Crozier off their back, get paid and get the hell away from here. But no, everything had to be a struggle. Crozier had to be constantly pissed off at him, which was understandable, and Seth had to be useless at planning. 

Mordred had been trekking back and forth from his room to the kitchen all day with endless cups of coffee. Despite his desperate longing to get hammered and despite Seth's offer of "so much fucking cocaine, seriously dude," Mordred knew he'd never get any work done in an altered state of mind, so he was staying miserably sober. He was just heading back to his room as we enter the narrative, as a matter of fact, with more coffee, when he heard a strange noise coming from Seth's room. Without any scruples he leaned against the door to listen further. 

"I don't care!" Seth was saying. "You've got to let me fuckin' see her!" There was a long pause. Presumably, he was talking on the phone. Mordred sharpened his sonic implants to listen more closely. On the other end of the line, he could hear a woman's voice. 

"If you call my house one more time I'm getting a fucking restraining order," the woman was saying. "And no. Once every other weekend is already too much, you piece of shit."

"Fuck you!" Seth said through gritted teeth. "Fuck you, you controlling bitch—" Click!— "Don't you hang up on me...fuck." There was the familiar and distinct sound of Seth's crappy cellphone being flung against the wall. Mordred counted to three and opened the door. Seth was lying face-down in the bed, bottle of Smirnoff held tightly in hand. 

"What's going on?" Mordred said quietly. 

Seth looked up, red-eyed and enraged. "Nothin'! Mind your own fuckin' business!"

Mordred squinted. "It doesn't look like nothing."

"Leave me alone!"

Mordred leaned against the wall. "Who were you just talking to?"

"Why do you care? I should be able to make fucking phone calls in my own fucking house without getting the third degree. You don't even know, anyway!"

Seth took a drink of vodka right out of the bottle and Mordred took a drink of coffee. "I don't know what?" the cyborg asked quietly. 

"Lots of things." Seth said miserably. "You...you don't really have a family, do you?"

"My brother, whom you've met," Mordred said, thinking. "My dad who was an alcoholic douchebag. My mom died in a meth lab explosion when I was 3."

"That's fuckin' insane. Seriously?" Despite previously being unwilling to engage in a conversation, Seth was intrigued. 

"Yeah, no kidding. Whatever, though. I don't have any kids or anything, my brother and my dad are my only family that I know of. And I don't talk to them."

"No kids," Seth said with an affected world-weary sigh. "You won't know what I'm fucking talking about even if I did tell you." He rolled over to lie on his back and closed his teary eyes. 

"I could try to understand."

"Why do you even care?"

"Well, we're supposed to be somehow getting the Starset Amulet, Crozier is tearing me a new one, and you're here crying your eyes out. Maybe if we could both calm down and think we could get out of his fucking mess." He paused. "Plus I care about you and stuff."

"That's gay."

"I don't care. You can't sit here and cry alone," Mordred said resolutely. 

"Whatever." Seth sighed again. "Fine...Morty, do you think, like, divorced dads should get to see their kids?"

Mordred didn't look up. "I guess. If they're good fathers."

Seth laughed humorlessly. "I'm the worst fucking father ever."

"Is that what this is about?"

"Yes!" Seth grabbed a book off the table beside his bed and flung it at Mordred. It was a shitty romance novel with a picture of a sweaty guy in a cape holding a fainting scantily-clad woman on the cover. The cyborg dodged it. "That's what I'm mad about! I only get to see my kid, my own fuckin' child whom I created with my own gametes and shit, only every two weeks!" He balled his fists up against his eyes. "You don't understand!"

He looked up as Mordred sat down on the bed beside him. The taller man stared down awkwardly at his hands. "Uh...that's pretty shitty."

"Pretty shitty? _Pretty shitty._ Yeah, it's pretty shitty that I'm enough of a deadbeat dad that my fucking bitch wife wants to leave me even though I'm the richest man in Australia. And it's pretty shitty that my kid, the only fucking person I've ever loved, is getting taken away from me! And I think it's extremely fucking shitty that I only get to see her every two fucking weeks! That's like two years!" He clenched his fists in his hair. "That's two weeks of damage Amber's doing to her. That's two weeks of Amber telling her, "Your daddy doesn't love you enough to stay." That's two fucking weeks of Amber forcing my _daughter,_ my five-year-old daughter, into dresses and pigtails and making her sit around for little tea parties with the other white trash kids whose parents she knows." He choked back tears. "And I used to be like that! I used to not care. I used to call them around for play dates and snort coke with the other dads in the garage, and I used to watch her with the other fucking kids pretending to drink, like, imaginary tea, and I didn't even say anything to her. I hardly ever even held her. I still don't even know how to hold a fucking baby and I have a kid of my own." He wasn't even trying to hide that he was crying now. "I wish I could just go back in time and tell her how much I loved her. If she lived with me I wouldn't make her wear those stupid fucking pink dresses any more, I know now that it doesn't really matter. Kids should be wearing overalls. I don't even care if she turns into a lesbian. She means everything to me and now Amber's gonna turn her against me, I know it. And I deserve it."

Neither of them said anything. 

"Sorry," Seth murmured. "You should probably go."

"What are you going to do if I leave?" Mordred said. He was a bit choked up with tears himself. 

Seth chuckled. "I dunno. I think I have enough coke to kill myself in here so maybe that's what I'll do."

"What? You can't do that."

"Don't fuckin' tell me what I cannot do," Seth said. "I have no purpose any more. I'm a fucking failure of a father, and a brother, and a...a whatever I am to you. I'm a failure of a person! Everything I touch diiiies!" 

The wind was knocked out of him by Mordred swooping in for a mechanically efficient hug. Seth winced and then sort of hugged him back. 

"You're not a failure," Mordred said. "I would be dead without you. You saved my life back in the Church."

"I guess."

"And it's clear to me that you love your daughter a lot. I know you'll be able to make the most of the time you can spend with her. It's not too late to show you that you love her."

"Whatever."

"And..." He paused, feeling how very small and limp Seth was in his arms. "And your daughter probably isn't a lesbian. I don't think kids that young have developed sexualities."

"She is. She cut all her hair off with safety scissors. All lesbians have short hair."

"Well..." Mordred paused. There was no shaking Seth of his convictions. "Well, okay."

"Let go of me," Seth murmured. He clutched at the back of Mordred's black T-shirt. 

"No."

Seth sniffled. He was uncomfortably bony against Mordred's chest, but Mordred didn't let go. "Morty?"

"Yes?"

"What would you if I...if I wasn't, uh, around any more?" Seth asked. 

"I don't know." Mordred bit his lip. "I can't imagine you being gone. I have no idea. I have like no friends apart from you. I don't make friends easily."

"You seem friendly."

"I'm too quiet. You're the only person who ever bothered to get close to me. I don't know what I'd do if you were gone. I dunno if I'd be able to go on."

Seth wiped at his tear-streaked face. There was snot stringing through his patchy mustache and dripping onto Mordred's shoulder. "I guess I could stay alive or whatever."

"Thanks."

"Now let go of me...this is seriously gay," Seth bitched. 

"You're gay." Mordred let go of him and settled back awkwardly, grinning. 

"You sure you don't wanna do some coke?"

"We got so much fucking work to do," Mordred sighed. 

"Let it go!" Seth said, getting to his feet and smiling even though his eyes were red with tears. "C'mon, you robot, live a little."

Mordred rolled his eyes. "Fine. And I'll let the 'robot' thing slide this time..."

So they snorted a bit of coke (it was Mordred's first time doing so) and sat around and talked, Seth talking a million miles an hour and Mordred's robot eyes filled with swirling neon colors like they always did when he got high. The conversation topic switched to music, as usual. 

"We had the best fuckin' band in high school," Seth reminisced. "We were fuckin' hardcore, the real shit. Hardcore punk. Got drunk every night and sounded real sloppy like it's supposed to do. Punk ain't supposed to sound good. It's gotta sound like total shit. That's the thing. If it's shitty, if it's four angry kids and three chords and everyone's high and sweating like a pig and full of fuckin' rage, that's punk."

"Mm-hm," Mordred said.

"We ain't punk no more," Seth said. "We're middle-aged. Old and fat and complacent."

"Mm-hm."

"Dude, you're so fucking high," Seth said with a crooked grin. "Can you even fuckin' hear me?"

"What?" The brightly flashing eyes focused in on Seth. "Yeah, I can. I think we could be punk."

"Yeah, fuckin' right. I'm not angry enough."

"You're plenty angry," Mordred said. "You could be like an angry dad punk."

"Dads can't be punk!" 

"Well, maybe post-grunge," Mordred said. "What was the band called?"

"F.O.A.D.," Seth reminisced. 

"What's that mean?"

"Think. Use that robot brain."

"Uh...just tell me."

"Stands for 'Fuck Off And Die,'" Seth said proudly. 

"We should have a band," Mordred said. "I'm bass. You're guitar. We just need a drummer."

"And a singer."

"You can sing," Mordred said. "I heard you sing. You're good."

"No!" Seth laughed. "You're so fucking high. Christ."

"I will smoke anything you give me, Seth," Mordred said in a somber tone. "Anything."

"You fucking lightweight."

"Not stuff with needles," the taller man mused. "Staying away from those."

"Good boy. You don't wanna go down that road."

"It fucked up my dad and my brother. 'Course I won't."

"My dad was an alcoholic," Seth said thoughtfully. "He was always fuckin' distant. Did whatever Mom told him...God, I hate that man."

"Dude, I'll be your dad."

"You can't be my dad."

"I'll take you fishing and we'll go to baseball games and I'll rent strippers for your birthday!" Mordred said with a grin. His teeth were doing something strange. Spikes were projecting from them and then withdrawing rhythmically. He was so fucked up, Seth reflected. 

"Fine, whatever," Seth said. He rolled his eyes. 

"And dude, our band is gonna fuckin' rock..."

"Fucking right. Post-grunge."

"Fuck yeah, I—"

Someone knocked on the front door, silencing the men. They both glared in its direction. Another knock came, sharp and businesslike. 

"You get it," Seth murmured. 

"Fine. Fuck you." Mordred composed himself, tried to stop the glowing of his eyes, and went to answer the door...

It was none other than a man he barely recognized from pictures, a pale well-dressed man with dark hair and eyes so emotionless they put Mordred's robot ones to shame. It was Charles Foster Ofdensen. He was flanked by muscular Klokateers on either side. 

"Mordred Hammersmith?" said Charles quietly. 

"Who...who wants to know?" Mordred said. He could feel the manic high quickly draining from his body. He didn't want that. He desperately wanted more coke. 

"I do," Charles said. "We're after you and Seth. We understand that you're, ah, looking for something."

Mordred felt really weird. Without breaking eye contact, he attempted to close the door. Charles stuck out one Italian leather shoe and blocked it. 

"We have important information you need to know," Charles said. "Is Seth here?"

"No," Mordred said. He had to protect his partner. 

Of course, just then Seth came out of the bedroom. "Who's there..." He stopped in his tracks. "Charles?" He sounded disgusted. 

Charles gave Mordred a Look. Mordred shrugged. 

"Morty, what the fuck is goin' on?" Seth whispered loudly. 

"I don't know!"

"May I come in?" Charles said. 

"No," Seth and Mordred said simultaneously. 

"I can promise you that I will do you no harm," Charles said. "Believe me, if I wanted you dead you'd have been dead before you opened this door. I want to talk."

"Whatever," Mordred said quietly. They went and sat down in the living room. Seth and Mordred were on the couch; Seth had his legs pulled up to sit criss-cross-applesauce. Charles chose a chair before them and aggressively leaned forward. 

"I realize you view yourselves as opposing us," Charles said, "but that might not be the case." A Klokateer brought him a tumbler of scotch stolen from Seth's liquor cabinet. "We're changing our objectives all the time, and right now our objective is to throw the fight against Salacia."

"What?" Seth said. "That sounds like a good fuckin' way to get killed."

"One would think so, but we recently received some new information..." Charles recounted the story of how they'd found the traitors and tortured them until they gave up their secrets. Salacia would die if the Doomstar were destroyed. From there, Charles had come directly to Seth and Mordred, since Magnus had told him that their goal was to steal his amulet and use it to help destroy the star. Salacia would be suspicious of them if they accepted the Doomstar's destruction, so they were going to act like nothing happened until the last possible moment, while the Tribunal conspired against them. In conclusion... "I was thinking it could be feasible for us to, ah, join forces."

"So all along we were sneaking around for fuckin' nothing?" Seth said. 

Charles shrugged. 

"And what happens if we don't want to work with you?" Seth continued. 

Charles nodded at one of the Klokateers. Instantly, three of them grabbed Seth. He was put in a headlock, dangling a foot off the ground since the one holding him was around six and a half feet tall. "We can dispose of you easily," Charles said. "And we won't leave a trace. It'll be like you never existed."

"Nnngh," Seth went. The Klokateer dropped him. He slumped back into a sitting position and rubbed his neck, wincing. 

"What's in it for us?" Mordred asked sharply. 

"We might not kill you."

"Why does there always have to be killing?" Mordred rubbed his temples. "Why can't we just get paid with, like, money? I can't deal with all this freakin' death and stuff, I'm under so much stress..."

"There could be some financial payoff for you as well."

Seth perked up. "How much we talking, Charlie?"

"Well, we'll decide after the fact," Charles said, steepling his fingers. "And is that an agreement?"

Seth and Mordred looked at each other, then back at Charles. "Yeah," said the cyborg. 

Charles got up. "Follow me, then. We can discuss this further on the way back to the Church."

"But what about Crozier?" Mordred asked. 

"We can be invisible when we want to," Charles said. "Do you doubt me?"

Mordred looked down. "I guess not."

"He'll be pleased when he finds you have the amulet, and he'll never find out it was all part of our plan."

"Whatever," Mordred sighed. "Let's just go. Crozier called me three times today. Either way we're screwed."

So what they'd been looking for all this time had been dropped into their hands, but at a possibly devastating cost...they followed the CFO out to his sleek, black and inconspicuous car. A Klokateer drove them through back alleys until they reached the edge of the tumultuous grey sea, the border between worlds. 

~~~

William Murderface was in bed, half-asleep, although it was daytime. Dethklok had found two separate bedrooms to stay in. Although it was cramped and subpar and not filled with exactly the collection of strange, macabre items he'd managed to fill his own living quarters with (he was something of a hoarder), the room Murderface shared with Toki was good enough. And he was still getting used to being in complete control of his own mind. He hadn't realized how tired he'd been. For now, sleep was his favorite drug. 

He'd taken a shower about ten minutes ago, finally being unable to cope with his own B.O., and his messy hair dripped water onto the pillow as his eyes fluttered closed. Right now, the other guys were in the songwriters' room, looking over Nathan's idealistic plans for their next album. 

It was supposed to be a rock opera, or a "Klok Opera," according to Nathan. This was weird; although the singer had never exactly shied away from pretensions, this was the first time he'd wanted to attempt something of this magnitude. Nathan said this would be the next big thing, though. And despite the fact that he didn't exactly have a way with words (that weren't in songs) they all sorta believed him. 

The Klok Opera would entail the events that took place between Toki and Abigail's kidnapping and Charles' being crowned the new leader of the Church. It would be a massive departure from their regular melodeath style, encompassing orchestral music, pop, still a bit of metal, some Broadway-esque songs, and some weird bleepy shit none of them really knew what to do with. All the members would have sections to sing, too, and Dick was already hooking them up with an orchestra ("I know some people, okay, babe, don't forget that I used to be prog..."). 

And, of course, Murderface was still being left out. He had considerably less to sing than everyone else. When he'd asked Nathan about this, the singer had mumbled something about his voice being hard to write for or something. Murderface knew what this meant. He knew he couldn't sing and he'd never be able to. His voice was just as weird and ugly as the rest of him. He'd acted all offended, but honestly, he was relieved. He didn't want much of his voice on what was going to be their "most biggest album yet,"—Nathan (sic). All he wanted was more sleep...

...but he couldn't even get that. The door opened and closed again. Someone shuffled in and sat down on Toki's bed. Murderface pulled his face out of the pillow and squinted over, vision blurry with fatigue. It was Toki. His back was turned and he was hunched in a posture of defeat, and he was...crying. Toki was emotional, but he rarely full-out cried. Murderface began to say "What's the matter," but it struck him that that was totally gay, so he stopped himself halfway through and ended up accidentally saying "What."

Toki looked around and sniffled. "What?...Moiderface, I thoughts you was asleeps."

"I wash until you came in. Uh..." He grimaced in the pain of caring. "What happened?" 

"Oh. Uh, well, the album haves gots things about Magnus on it." Toki bit his lip and made a small whimpering sound before continuing, "And I'ms getting these weird things. The, what you calls them, flashesback. And it's makings me confuseds."

"Oh."

"But I'm gonna keeps going," Toki said with a frown. "I'ms gonna sings about Magnus, gonna makes sure everyones knows what a fuckings monster that guy is...I mean was...I mean is. Because if I'm scareds that means I'm lettings him win." He fell back on the bed with his arms out and eyes closed.

Murderface thought about Toki. He thought about the huge cocktail of drugs that was keeping him alive, prescriptions for his depression and his infected wounds inflicted by the ex-guitarist and his diabetes and his constant anxiety, the reason he'd looked so worn-out these past few weeks. And then there were more medications to counteract the unpleasant side effects of these medications. Murderface thought about how shifting Toki's mental state was. Abigail had extra surveillance placed around Toki in case he tried to hurt himself. He still woke up screaming from nightmares, and sometimes they followed him into the waking world. He was never really sure of what was real and what wasn't, after spending so much time in the semi-hallucinatory state he'd gone into in Magnus' hands. Toki was just as likely to slash his own wrists just to feel that real pain as he was to get in bar fights for no reason. Well, there was a reason; nobody had ever really loved him until he'd met Dethklok. 

Toki was so fragile and weak, it was a wonder he was alive. But he was also so strong. It was really his stubbornness that has kept him clinging; that same belligerence that annoyed people in the studio was what had kept him here. Dethklok were learning that Toki wasn't to be taken for granted. 

"Moiderface...Williams! What ams you thinkin's about? Got you head up in the clouds?"

William shook himself back to the present. "Pretty much. Shorry, thinking."

Just then, someone else burst into the room, interrupting the sort-of-conversation. It was their glowing guitar god, with his hair frazzled and shirt torn. He flumped (half flopped, half jumped) onto Toki's bed and began angrily playing his Explorer.

"Uh...what ams you doings in here?" Toki asked. 

"What? Ams I intersupking you's stupids dumb dildoes baby jacksoff club time?!" Skwisgaar nearly yelled. 

"There'sh no need for that negativity," Murderface purred. 

If looks could kill, that icy blue gaze would be exploding Murderface's head into a million billion tiny little pieces right now. 

"You looks fuckeds up," Toki said, wiping tears away. 

Skwisgaar growled and tuned his guitar in moments to an open C tuning. He had a perfect ear for that sort of thing. "Well, Nathans and I gots in a littles argumenks." His fingers danced up the tenth, twelfth, thirteenth frets. "Apparenksly I can'ts be allsowed to writes lyrics!" Triplets were executed with smooth precision. 

" _Can_ you write lyricsh?" Murderface asked. 

"Yeah!" Skwisgaar blustered. "Ams easy! Anyones can does it! Gimme that papers and pens!" Toki obeyed. Skwisgaar scribbled violently for a moment, using the back of his guitar for a desk. His brow furrowed. "Uh...what rhymes with 'dildoes?'"

Murderface's lips moved silently. "'Kill thoshe?'"

Skwisgaar stared at the page, then crumpled it up and chucked it across the room. "Whatsever! I coulds write a song, just ams too busy all the times..."

"What ams you doing in here?" Toki asked impatiently. 

Skwisgaar sighed dramatically and flung a piece of paper with some bass tabs on it at Murderface. "Here's your fuckings musics!"

Murderface ruffled through the pages. His neon eyes slowly widened. "Wait, thish ish like a whole album'sh worth of basshlinesh...you're not playing bassh at all?"

"No!" Skwisgaar moaned. "Nathans said I couldn't! Too many fuckings schedilungs conskflicts!" He curled into fetal position. "I gots to plays guitars and do the singings, and there amen'st enough times for me to do all three!"

"Hah," Murderface said smugly as he tucked the papers away. 

Skwisgaar gave Toki some papers too. Toki scrubbed tears out of his eyes and read them. He found his own guitar and hesitantly started to play, painfully aware of Skwisgaar's looming presence. He frowned as he hit a wrong note, pulled off from the wrong place, and messed up his triads, fingers buzzing against the frets. Finally he sighed and curled up around the guitar. "Maybe this albums don't need no rhythms guitars."

Skwisgaar sighed. "You fuckings kiddings me? I goes to the trouble of writings these all outs and you just sits there on you's stupid ass?"

"Whatever." Toki pushed the guitar away. 

"You gots problems, you knows that?"

"Yeah, Skwisgaar." Toki rolled his eyes and began texting someone, probably Dr. Rockzo. 

Skwisgaar sighed and got to his feet, his imposing height towering over the other guitarist. "Would you fuckings listens to me?" 

"What?!" Toki whined. 

"You...you ams not a bad guitarsist!" Skwisgaar growled. "You ams the fuckings seconds fastest guitarsist in the world! We needs you in this band!...I needs you! Why ams you so fuckings insecure? You should be prouds."

"I can'ts help it..." Toki said. 

"I wants you to believes in yourself," Skwisgaar said flatly. "This band needs you, Toki. And maybe...maybe you'ds be more confiskent if you just fuckings practiceds once in a whiles!"

"Really?" Toki said. "You means all that?"

"Well, of course we needs you. We fuckings rescued you. Now start playing."

Murderface crawled out from his blanket nest. It was impossible to sleep around these dildoes. "That wash out of character."

"Yeah, well, he needs some confikense boostings and no ladies would comes near him...to gives him the condifence boosts."

"Are you shaying that you're a lady?" Murderface said. "'Cosh that'sh what it shoundsh like you're shaying."

"I AMS NOT A LADY, WILLIAMS!"

"Shomeone'sh on her period."

The door opened and closed again. "Who elshe ish in here?" Murderface groaned. 

"Me," Pickles said. He slumped into Murderface's bed and lit a prerolled joint. That was how you knew Pickles was worried, he'd get too shaky to roll satisfactory joints, so he'd get prerolled ones. "Nate'n wants me to sing all these parts on the album! I dunno if I can do it!"

"You ams a pretty goods singer," Toki said. 

"I dunno..."

"Hatredscopter was ams good," Skwisgaar said, absently fretting away. 

"Okay. I guess if you guys think it's okay...I mean, I can't even tell! You can't tell what yer own voice sounds like. Did y'ever try recording yer own voice? It sounds diff'rent."

Toki and Pickles talked about recording their voices for a bit while Skwisgaar played guitar and Murderface tried to sleep. Then the door opened again as someone else came in. Murderface put a pillow over his head. 

It was Nathan. Even though they'd all come in to get away from him, they didn't leave when he came in. Nathan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He glared out into space. "Ugh," he went. No one paid attention. "Ughhhh," he said pointedly. 

"What ish it?" Murderface said. 

"All this stuff is so complicated!" Nathan groaned. "And I don't even know how to read sheet music, and I'm supposed to write things for the orchestra! Does anyone know how to read sheet music?"

"I do a little bit," Pickles said. Nathan tossed a book called _Music Theory Grades 3—5_ at the drummer, who looked at it. He squinted and bit his lip. His finger traced the tiny notes across the page. "Uh...okay, I don't, I guess. But I think that one's a G!"

"I'm gonna kill myself," Nathan said, sinking to the floor and pinching the bridge of his nose to fend off a headache. 

"Charles knows how to reads the sheets music," Toki said. "I'll texts him." He pulled out his Dethphone again. 

"Is there anything Charles _can't_ do?" Nathan mused. 

"Exshpressh hish emotionsh," Murderface suggested. 

"Yeah, but none of us can do that either," Nathan said. 

The door swung open and closed again. Murderface was almost getting used to this. Abigail Remeltintdrinc leaned against the door and rubbed her eyes, then threw her blazer off and ripped her hair out of its ponytail.

"Abigail," Nathan said in that specific tone that he only used when talking to her. The tone was probably comparable to the hushed voice of awe you might use when pointing out the beauty of a radiant sunset, so it sounded funny in Nathan's hoarse growl. He sidled up to her. 

"Not now, Nate," she said. "God. I've had the longest day. Dick and I left Mordhaus to answer the newspapers' questions about all you, and all anyone wants to know about is what happened to Toki...of course we couldn't tell them."

"Babe," Nathan whined in a whiny voice. Abigail put her hand on his chest to hold him away. He looked down at the hand. 

"I'm not in the mood," she said. "Besides, no public displays of affection in front of the others."

"They don't mind!" Nathan whined. "Right, guys!"

Skwisgaar had a look of horror and disgust on his face, like someone who's just seen a child get hit by a car, blood and brains splashing everywhere. Pickles was puking already, although that might've had something to do with the three bottles of vodka he'd had for lunch. Toki was curled into fetal position under the bed. Murderface was hiding under the covers again, shivering. 

"Whatever," Nathan grunted. 

"Maybe later, sweetie," Abigail said quietly. 

Pickles puked even harder. 

One more person entered the room: Charles Foster Ofdensen. "There's someone here to see you, boys."

"I don't want to see anyone. We're all hungry," Nathan said. Pickles murmured something enthusiastic about cinnamon buns in agreement. 

"It's rather important." Charles raised an eyebrow. "It concerns the Doomstar, and the decision you all made...the decision to accept your defeat. I told you we weren't done talking about that."

Nathan frowned at those words. Accepting defeat wasn't something he was used to. He was no hero, he wasn't brave, but he trampled on anything that got in his way. This was what they all did, but now they were helpless, and there was nothing they could or should do about it. "I don't like that word. Defeat."

"Well, it's Salacia's defeat as well...and now, we've got plans to make. Let's go."


	26. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles angsts, Magnus angsts, and Abigail angsts, with a dash of plot development.

The atmosphere in the cramped room was one of distinct awkwardness as Dethklok stared at the two guys who, until recently, had been determined to bring them to their doom. Seth stared into the ceiling with a nearly-smug smile. Pickles was actually growling at him. Toki was staring at Mordred strangely. Mordred didn't actually look too similar to his twin brother, but the resemblance was still there. 

On the Dethklok side of the table, Pickles was muttering to Nathan, "God, I jest wanna smack that smile off his stupid face. This is feckin' serious."

Nathan sighed and leaned back. The sigh blew a strand of black hair up and made it flutter. 

Seth didn't say anything, but he was texting someone. Mordred's phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen. It was Seth. 

_lookit my stupid brothers talking about me_

Mordred typed out a response. _He's not talking about you. You're just paranoid._

_duck you asshole your paranoid_

Mordred's phone buzzed again. _*fuck_

He sighed and pushed it into his robe pocket. It vibrated continuously. Seth was hunched over his own phone. Eventually Mordred picked up his phone again just to appease Seth. Seth had sent him a bunch of memes. 

"What's this frog guy?" Mordred said, confused. 

Charles came in, silencing the room. He was rather proud of being able to do that. He wouldn't have been able to a few years ago (at the beginning of Season 1) but coming back from the grave, and living to see Salacia's final form, could give you a thousand-yard stare like nothing else, and he used it to his advantage. "Gentlemen," he said, "it's time to negotiate." Which went swimmingly...no, I'm joking. Of course it didn't. 

Seth and Pickles were, of course, constantly at each other's throats. Skwisgaar still wasn't too keen on the notion of throwing the final battle. Murderface said that Skwisgaar was just too smug to accept his fate, and that he, William, was perfectly humble and wouldn't complain a bit. Nathan replied that maybe Murderface was so used to being at the bottom of the food chain that this was no difference. Murderface responded by pulling a knife out and picking his teeth with it, which would've looked more threatening if it weren't for the tooth gap. Pickles' tarantula had begun to roam the table and seek refuge in Toki's hair. Toki let out an eardrum-piercing shriek and freaked the fuck out. The tarantula abandoned ship. Abigail backed away, knocking her chair over. As Charles stepped forward to appease everyone, he heard a satisfying crunch from beneath his heel. He looked down, momentarily startled out of his emotionless facade. Eight hairy legs stuck out from beneath his shoe. 

"MY DICK!" Pickles wailed. He lunged across the room to kneel at the fallen tarantula's corpse. 

"What," Seth said. 

Charles stepped back. The sole of his shoe was coated in goop and tarantula hairs. 

"You killed My Dick!" Pickles sobbed, tears running down his face. "She was so young!"

"I'm—I'm sorry, Pickles—"

"SORRY! Sorry doesn't cover it! How'd you like to be squished under someone's shoe?!" Pickles said. He gathered the fragments of spider and cradled them, hands shaking and lower lip trembling. 

"I'll buy you another one—"

"BUY ME ANOTHER ONE?! Have fun buyin' another drummer, you emotionless robot!"

Mordred winced at this. 

"Pickles, please..."

"You're a fucking monshter, you know that?" Murderface spat out at Charles. "My Dick wash innoshcent. How could you hurt shomething like that?"

"I demand a proper Viking funeral for My Dick," Pickles said. 

So they all trooped off into the entryway of the Church. The group stood on the edge of the darkly shimmering pathway as Pickles put My Dick in a cardboard box and said his final words, then lit the box and pushed it away. He rested his head on his hands, and tears dripped from his face and mingled with the black water. 

"I'd like to thank you all fer remainin' by my side in this time of trouble," Pickles said. "But My Dick is in a better place now." A few Klokateers standing guard bowed their heads. They were dressed in a darker shade of black than usual to mark the somber occasion. 

Toki wondered what was happening to his own new pet, Zarathustra the kitten. Just as the thought entered his mind, a small black creature ran downstairs. It was the tiny cat. 

"Zara!" Toki said. "Comes here! Daddy gots the pettings for you!"

The cat glanced up at Toki, its one white blind eye glinting in the lavalight. Then it rushed away into the darkness. 

"Ungradesful bastards!" Toki called after the cat. "Nobody wants to hangs out with Toki..."

"I'm afraid we really need to get back on track," Charles said. Abigail, who had been snickering through the whole "My Dick" fiasco, nodded. She always went silent at important discussions like this; she didn't want to influence Nathan, who would go to the ends of the earth to sleep with her. 

"Now, guys," the CFO said to Dethklok, "these two are the, er, gentlemen who broke into the Church while Magnus was in here."

"I can't believe my fucking scumbag brother was in the building and I didn't get to beat him up," Pickles muttered. 

"They ain'ts ups to no goods, Charle," Skwisgaar said. 

"Fuck you too," Seth said. Mordred elbowed him in the ribs just a touch too hard. 

"Everybody shut up and listen," Charles growled. They all did. This was as angry as Charles allowed himself to get; it wasn't a good sign. "Seth and Mordred Hammersmith share an objective with us; namely, the destruction of the Doomstar. If we can work together, these two can get the amulet to the Tribunal and they won't suspect a thing. This is our easiest way to go through with the plan."

"I'm not working with that jackass," Pickles said. 

Charles watched Nathan face Pickles. "We gotta do this, okay? So suck it up and quit being such a baby."

"I'm NOT a baby! He's fucking abusive!"

"We're saving the fucking world or whatever!" Nathan said. "We don't have time for this, Pickles. Besides, I thought you forgave him."

Pickles wanted to punch that stupid dopey smirk right off Nathan's face, but he knew Nathan could smash his skull into a billion little pieces, so he settled for fuming, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth like he always did when angry, his green eyes darkening. "I don't wanna work with him."

"It's either work with him or be like partly responsible for the world's destruction. Your call."

The other three had ganged up behind Nathan and were staring at him. He hated them so much right now...and what business did they all have being that tall? He hated when people were taller than him. What was even the point of being tall? They just looked like a bunch of goddamn dildoes. 

"Fine," Pickles said. "Whatever. As long as I don't have to hang out with him or anything."

Seth lit a cigarette. 

"Good," Nathan said. "Okay. We're ready to, uh, negotiate."

They didn't bother going back upstairs; they just talked down in the vestibule. Money was exchanged in an ephemeral fashion no one but Charles understood. A lot of misunderstandings were cleared up. Seth and Mordred Hammersmith had to sign papers stating that they wouldn't try to kill any members of Dethklok or their employees. After probably half an hour, they were finished making decisions, and completely bored. Even saving the world was boring when Charles rubbed his bureaucratic little hands all over it. 

But Seth's eyes lit up when Charles reached beneath the collar of his shirt and drew out the glittering circular pendant: the Starset Amulet was in their hands. A sense of awe fell over the room (even though Murderface wasn't paying attention and was picking his nose in the corner). Seth's eyes fixed on the amulet as Charles placed the chain around his neck. Damn, that thing looked like it was worth a lot of money. 

As Seth and Mordred Hammersmith were escorted away into a submarine, Pickles clenched his fists and gritted his teeth and wondered whether they could have picked anyone worse for this job. 

~~~

Meanwhile, in the dungeon, Magnus was silently raging as well. 

He'd been listening to the entire thing, and he wondered how they could possibly do this. Sure, Dethklok weren't the most honorable guys. But pretending to lose a huge battle that put the Earth in peril? That was just goddamn cowardly. 

He adjusted his position against the wall. He was sitting on the tiny cot in the cell he now called home. A Klokateer had brought him some bread and water and something that might have been, long ago, soup, but he didn't touch them. He wanted something to drink. 

It was dark, and his mind was somehow struck by horror and boredom at once. The horror he was used to. He'd been anxious ever since Salacia had pulled him from his grave, and the anxiety are away like a parasite in his gut, making him weak and weary and jumpy. The boredom was almost worse.

Here he was, powerless and emasculated. If he were still in Dethklok they wouldn't be staying and hiding like cowards. They'd be fighting. 

Why had he done this? Why, instead of obeying Salacia just like he'd obeyed the Metal Masked Assassin, had he thought he was some kind of hero and rushed off to tell Dethklok this? Salacia was the only one who had the power to end his miserable life now. He'd doomed himself to immortality. Once, long ago, he'd have been elated at the prospect, but now it made him sick and nauseous. 

_I'm not the hero. I'm the villain._

He felt like he was going to start crying. He'd always hated that feeling. It was like powerlessly falling into a pool of your own emotions. He didn't want to let the tears out, but a few trickled out anyway, plashing silently on the dirty sheets. 

_Salacia, wherever you are, please have mercy on my soul._ He knew the Half-Man couldn't hear him here in the echo chamber of the Church, but he prayed somehow anyway. His fingers drew through the cigarette ash on the flimsy table beside his bed and brushed against the leather-bound edge of the Bible there. He picked it up absently. He'd never been a big fan of religion, but he didn't like feeling this bored. He needed to be distracted. He opened to a random page near the back. 

_He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints._

_Well._ He closed the book and shoved it away and crossed his arms petulantly. 

Why were Dethklok keeping him around?...He supposed he could answer that question himself. It wasn't exactly a good business plan to keep your unkillable former kidnapper running around. But why were they just leaving him here instead of torturing him? They'd had no whims about waterboarding Hesperus Nix and Briar Thorne to within inches of their lives until they let out their secrets, then throwing them to the yard wolves. Why keep him around?

Had Toki really asked to keep him around? Did the rhythm guitarist really care about him? Did he still have some kind of unbreakable Stockholm-syndrome connection to him? Magnus hummed some pop song he half-remembered, trying to distract himself from his fucked-up reality. 

_Take me to church, I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies, I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife, offer me that deathless death, good God, let me give you my life_

He felt something brush against his ankle. Zarathustra the cat had somehow snuck down here, and was curling into a ball by his feet. He scruffed its ears. "Go on. You don't want to hang around with a useless old man like me."

The kitten mewed and licked him. 

"I hurt them bad, you know," he said to the cat. "I broke them. You can't fix something like that. There's no way."

The kitten perked its ears up. 

"I don't know if I've changed or if I just think I did," he whispered. "I don't know what I'm going to do next. I've never felt like this before."

Zarathustra pounced onto his chest and curled into a warm furry circle. The kitten's purring blocked out the sound of his clockwork heart's ticking. He sighed and petted the little animal. 

He was a monster, but whatever...he didn't even care. 

~~~

_He doesn't even care._

Abigail stared at her reflection in the Charles' bathroom mirror. She was the only one left in Charles' apartment. Charles would be fine sharing a bedroom with her. He'd even offered to sleep on the couch, but she didn't want to inconvenience him. Besides, she trusted him. 

She worked her hair out of its tight ponytail and let it fall in curls around her face, then began unbuttoning her shirt to prepare for the shower. 

When Magnus had taken them prisoner, Toki had broken down much more quickly than Abigail. That flame in his eyes had died down, and been extinguished when Magnus had screamed at them and lied to them and touched them in ways that made sure his fingerprints would never really leave their bodies. They were still trying to rekindle the flame.

Abigail had immediately assumed a motherlike role for Toki. It was natural; she'd had two younger sisters whom she'd taken care of a lot, packing them lunches and walking them to school and tying their hair back into tight cornrows when their parents were busy. 

But eventually Magnus had gotten to her as well. She didn't show it nearly as much as Toki did, but you couldn't be emotional when you were a woman in this business; that was just begging for period jokes to be made. But when she was alone the words he'd whispered echoed in her head. 

_Nathan doesn't care about you. He'd have come to save you if he cared. You're just another slut to him, just another name to add to his list of sexual conquests._

She remembered Nathan telling Pickles that he chose the band over her, which was to be expected, but still stung. She remembered Nathan's stupid speech at that awful dinner with Charles, and the humiliation that had made her skin flush and her ears burn. Nathan hadn't seemed to really love her at all. Magnus was right. 

Her fingers brushed over the ugly still-healing wound on her ribs. That would leave a permanent scar. Who would love her?

But Nathan, for all his impulsive childish actions, still seemed deeply devoted to her. It was the little things that showed what he was really like, under the machismo that she so despised. When she'd complained about her unmanageable hair, he'd said something about argan oil that made her wonder what else he knew. He was the only boyfriend she'd ever had who did a better job of painting her nails than she did, even if he only ever painted them black. Nathan was different from the other guys she'd dated, even if he was just as tactless and immature. And Nathan seemed to love her. Even she couldn't deny that weird moony look that swept over his alligator-green eyes when he glanced her way. 

Of course, her parents weren't a big fan of her dating him. They still treated her like a teenager, although even her twenties were well behind her. Nathan had never met her parents, and she didn't really want to imagine what could happen if he did. 

Her father was a white blues musician from Chicago. Her mother was black and owned the biggest hairdressing studio in Maine. They'd met when he was on tour. Her mother told her that she'd touched his hair and immediately felt a connection, so of course she asked him out to the disco (which was what they did back then) and of course he said yes. It was love at first sight. 

She remembered her mother always cooking. One day in the kitchen she'd sat Abigail down for a talk. 

_Abby, the world is a dangerous place. It'll be ten times harder for you to make a living out there than anyone else. But don't you ever give up. The world needs you. And when you work ten times harder than any man, that just proves that you're ten times stronger than he is. So don't be scared of the world. You're gonna do great things._

She had her father's love of music and her mother's business sense, so of course she made it. But that didn't stop her parents from poking around and asking if "that Satanist fellow" was treating her right. 

Then she remembered her parents dancing around the kitchen while an old Aretha Franklin record spun and crackled, her mother dusted with flour and hairspray, her father smelling of bourbon and engine oil. Her mother always loved Aretha Franklin, and sometimes her dad would perch on the kitchen counter, strumming the battered guitar he'd built himself, singing and strumming along while her mother danced, pink apron fluttering, like a falling flower in the wind— _bein' good isn't always easy, no matter how hard the try._

She stepped into the shower and hugged her naked breasts, huddling like a small animal. She wondered what her parents would think if they knew what Magnus had done to her. 

_I wish he'd just killed me._

Once the thought entered her head it was impossible to get out, staining her mind. She told herself not to think about that. What would the band do without her? Without her running around after them, picking their messes up, covering up P.R. slips, dealing with Damien Cornickleson?

...Life was so goddamn hard. She wished she was still that little girl in the cramped Maine apartment. She wished she didn't have to deal with Nathan, and the rest of the band, and now this...this turn of events. They were risking their lives with no consideration of the financial effects. 

Her life was still a trippy nightmare. Magnus was so selfish. And that bastard was still somehow alive, unharmed several stories below her. She fantasized about ripping his dick off and shoving it down his throat. She wasn't violent, but the idea warmed her blood. 

The water washed away the thoughts of guilt; the white noise of the steady stream hitting the shower walls and her soapy skin emptied her mind. Her heartbeat slowed as she rinsed off the sin. 

She stepped out and toweled herself off, then stepped out from the warm steamy air into the startling chill of Charles' room, where the small suitcase she'd hastily stuffed full of clothes lay—

Charles was in his room, his back turned to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and strumming a guitar. She squeaked and pulled the towel up higher around her chest. He started and almost dropped the guitar, then turned pink when he saw her. "I—I'm sorry!" He went out and waited in the hall while she changed, still burning slightly with embarrassment. 

Charles was different from pretty much any other guy she worked with. He was respectful, if a bit awkward. He obviously had some sense of humor beneath the robotic mask; it showed in the sarcastic comments that flew over the band's heads and the eye-rolling whenever one of them said something particularly stonerish. For a moment there, with his back turned, in his white undershirt and mussed hair, he reminded her of her dad.

She'd never really been friends with a guy before. The closest thing she ever got to that was a lesbian roommate in college. But Charles was pleasant to be around. 

When the High Priest came back in he poured himself a large gin and tonic to get over having seen Abigail vulnerable like that. He picked up his computer and sat in his chair; she flicked through countless business emails on her Dethphone. 

Charles broke the silence. "So. The Doomstar is going to be destroyed."

"Can I be honest with you?" she said. He nodded. "I can't believe we're going through with this. The concert's in..." She glanced at the time. 8:49. "...almost exactly 48 hours. And Salacia's going to show up and try to kill the star, and we're just going to sit here while the band's powers are destroyed."

Charles sipped his drink. "It's for the greater good."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "For the greater good...That sounds like an awfully villainous thing to say, Charles."

He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his temples. He looked so tired. She wondered if he ever found time to sleep. "I'm trying my best," he said quietly, voice cracking. "I don't know what the right thing to do is. But it's not my decision. It's always up to the band."

Up to the band. Well, hopefully this wouldn't backfire. 

(Which would be a good place to end the chapter, but...)

"What are you doing over there?" Abigail asked. Charles had one headphone in. 

"Uh...important Church matters," Charles said. 

Abigail jumped up and darted over. Before Charles could slam the laptop shut, she saw what he was doing: watching cat videos on YouTube. 

"Seriously?" she said. 

"Hey, even the technically-undead need a little down time," he said with a half-smile. So they sat on the bed and watched cat videos together until they both fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bible verse is Rev. 13 verse 10. Song lyrics are from "Take Me to Church" by Hozier and "Son of a Preacher Man" by Aretha Franklin, originally by Dusty Springfield.


	27. Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This looks like the end of the road for Salacia's struggle, but Dethklok still don't know if they're going to succeed, and the fates aren't on their side.

In Seth's battered car again, Mordred rushed through incantations before hurriedly taking out his screwdrivers and beginning to open up the Klokwork bass guitar. They were on their way to the deserted and desolate location out in the middle of the woods where they'd be able to meet General Crozier, who'd demanded to see them as soon as possible. 

The Starset Amulet was placed in its hollow in the bass guitar. Mordred stared down at it. It seemed to throb with power, strange shadows moving across its surface like oil on water. 

"Here goes nothing," he murmured. 

~~~

Dethklok, flanked by platoons of Klokateers, waited in the exit from the Church. Their concert was tonight. They didn't speak to each other much; each member was nervous, and rightfully so. Salacia was barely human, even more otherworldly than they were. They didn't know if their plan would work or not, and none of them liked the idea of purposefully giving up. 

A floor below them, Magnus Hammersmith was leafing through one of the prophecies. It was in a book bound with mysterious leather, inlaid with five corroded silver symbols on the front cover. His brow furrowed as he read further, fingertips brushing the thin pages.

He barely heard footsteps approach him, but he marked his place in the book with a finger. He looked up. It was Charles. 

"Any final words?" The ex-CFO's glasses blocked his eyes, making him seem nearly as inhuman as Salacia. "Dethklok will be leaving for their show soon, and when the Half-Man is killed it'll leave you vulnerable as well. And we're not keeping you around."

Magnus shoved the book inside his shirt. "I need to talk to the band."

"Just tell me what you want to—"

"I need to talk to them myself!" Magnus' voice cracked. He sighed. "It's important."

Charles signaled with his hand. Klokateers seemed to materialize from the shadows. "You know what's going to happen if you try to run."

"I'm surprised you don't trust me, Charlie." Magnus smirked. He felt like shit, but he was good enough at faking to piss the High Priest off, which was the only thing that mattered. 

They led him upstairs. The band stared at him. At the sight of him, Toki seemed to go faint, but Pickles rested a hand on his shoulder. 

"He can't hurt you any more," Charles said. 

"I have something important to tell you before you leave," Magnus said. He found his place in the prophesy. 

"What is it, traitor?" Nathan growled. The band members' eyes all glowed red with uncontrollable rage-induced Dethlights power. 

Magnus looked up from the ancient tome. "I've been reading these prophecies..." 

"Where'd you get that book?" Charles said sharply. 

"I bribed a Klokateer," Magnus said impatiently. 

"With what?" Charles said. 

"I'd rather not say," Magnus said. Charles crossed his arms. Magnus sighed. "Fine. I blew a Klokateer."

"Grossh," Murderface snarled. He began making puking noises. 

"I've been reading these prophecies!" Magnus repeated. 

Nathan's steely glare shot into him. "Yeah?"

"And you're fucking with them," Magnus said. 

"What are you talking about?"

"It says here..." Magnus bent over the book, squinting. "It says that you fight against the Half-Man. You wage a battle against him that takes thousands of years, fighting his armies until the oceans brim with the blood of innocents and all that shit. It doesn't say anything about throwing the fucking fight. You're tampering with fate."

"Fuck fate," Murderface said. "We make our own fate."

And Magnus watched as they left to what could possibly be their final show. He seemed to wilt a bit. Charles hung around after the Klokateers had gone, eyeballing him. When no one was there, he snatched the book back from Magnus and shoved it into his suit jacket. Magnus didn't resist. 

"I know you're trying to help them,"  
Charles said quietly. "And I know you want redemption, and you should. But I just want you to know that I have absolutely zero respect for you. You're not a part of this band. You're a killer, a rapist, a torturer, and a coward." Magnus was slouching over so that he was almost the same height as the CFO. Charles grabbed him by his shirt and shook him a bit, making him look up, both men with hatred in their eyes. "If I could kill you right now I wouldn't hesitate for a moment."

"I...I know," Magnus said hoarsely. "I wish you could." He straightened up and tried to regain some of his composure. "I'll go back to my cell myself, you don't have to push me. I'll even lock the door." He laughed bitterly. "Sorry for fucking with your bread and butter, robot."

He left, going downstairs. The expression on Charles' face was unreadable. 

Meanwhile, Dethklok were on their bus, on their way to the show. Tension hung heavy like mist in the air. Skwisgaar's fingers moved at the speed of light across his fretboard. Murderface had his knife out and was stabbing the arm of his seat, scowling. Toki had gone to his happy place somewhere far away, and was mostly catatonic. Pickles was busy drowning his sorrows, eyes crossed, fingers sloppily clenching a bottle of Jim Beam. 

Nathan's Dethphone buzzed. He looked down at it. It was a text from Abigail. 

_I know you'll be okay. I love you, Nate._

It was always a bit hard for Nathan to express his emotions, but he smiled a bit as he typed out a response. 

_I love you too._

Barely fifteen minutes later, the audience thronged around the stage at the Dethklok concert. Flash bombs went off and colorful lights split the night as the band walked onto the darkened platform, wind tearing at their clothes. Nathan gripped the microphone, the black chipped polish on his nails gleaming, and growled "Hello, Wickström." (This was the city they were playing.)

The crowd burst into demented cheers, attempting to fling themselves at the band. Nathan surveyed the fans with disgust written across his face, as usual. Then he nodded at the band ever so slightly and they began to play the first song. It was one Nathan had just written, planning to put it on the Klok Opera; it was called Blazing Star.

_The glowing clouds, the diamond’s birth_  
The spiral cluster descends to earth  
The nebulas conspire to bring  
The signifier and the deth of a king 

Pickles had a part to sing, too: the chorus. Nathan stepped back into the shadows a bit, cold wind tangling his hair about his face like dark seaweed. He wondered where Pickles' accent went when he sang. 

_Oh, the keeper wields his scythe_  
Oh, you gotta kiss this life goodbye  
There is another place beyond we’ll meet in time,  
And I will greet you all in the next life 

Nathan thought the song worked out well. It was extremely rare that he was ever totally satisfied with what he wrote, but this was pretty damn close. After that they played Thunderhorse. The fans screamed even louder than before, which you wouldn't have thought possible. This was always a favorite song. 

And after that Nathan approached the microphone and growled out a "Good evening. It's great to be here. How are you all tonight?"

More deafening screaming. 

"Now I wanna see your hands in the air for this next one..."

"I'd much rather you put your hands in the air, Mr Explosion," hissed a strangely loud whisper from behind them. 

The members of Dethklok all whirled around to see what was lurking backstage. Slowly, a tall, white-haired man walked out from between the black curtains. He was holding something that gleamed like an evil scythe in the dim light, something that exuded the foul and grimy aura of dark metal, something that looked suspiciously like a bass guitar. 

"It's him," Skwisgaar murmured, face pale. 

Nathan turned to face the corporeal phantom. "Mister Salacia. What a pleasant surprise," he growled in what he fancied to be quite the dramatic tone. The microphone was picking up his voice, he noticed. The audience waited with bated breath. Now _this_ was metal. 

Salacia's eyes gleamed like pearls in the dusk. "So, you thought all would return to normal after your little dalliance with the Metal Masked Assassin," he rasped, his voice dry and dead like an autumn leaf. He was barely clinging to a human form; hints of tentacles and segmented legs bulged just below his mask of reality. "Little did you know how long I lay in wait for you, waiting in the darkness. Waiting for centuries." His smile looked like a broken mirror. "But I won't wait any longer. When I've destroyed the Doomstar, your puny human world will be protected no longer. You'll be under _my_ control now! All of you!"

The audience was uneasy. "Someone stop him!" a man in the audience yelled. 

"SILENCE!" Salacia roared. Without looking, he extended a hand toward the man who'd yelled out. The man's brains were boiled in his skull; his eyeballs exploded, showering the surrounding audience with goo. His empty corpse fell to the ground. Someone screamed. "No one move!" Salacia continued. "I've been after your planet for years, longing for the day I could still the chaos. And now the day has come...I'm going to freeze every single life-form on this planet. It will show a perfect snapshot in time, a perfect addition to my Collection. No more motion, no more chaos. Perfect peace."

"You're a monster," Pickles snarled. He jumped off the dais that his drum kit was on. His eyes flared red. "You killed Roy Cornickelson! That guy was like a father to us!"

"He had it coming," Salacia simpered. "Now, quiet, insect."

Pickles clenched his fists. 

"I am not a monster," Salacia hissed. "So I'll make you an offer. I will challenge you to a duel. If you win, you keep your filthy diseased planet. But if I win...Earth will be frozen in time forever."

Something else moved backstage. Vater Orlaag in his elaborate ceremonial robes, clutching a pair of unicorn-horn drumsticks, rushed out to Salacia. 

"Sir, you never said anything about taking the entire planet," Orlaag said. 

"Quiet," Salacia hissed. "I will not tolerate this insubordination. Either you stand with me or against me."

Orlaag panted. "But what about _me_?" he almost whimpered. "I'm from Earth. I don't want to be frozen forever."

"Do you really think I'd make an exception for you?" Salacia sneered. "Now, to your drums. I've made Dethklok an offer they can't refuse."

Orlaag looked to be on the point of rebellion, but quickly thought better of it. He rushed backstage and reappeared again a moment later on a hovercraft, behind his drum kit. He loomed in the distance. 

In the shadows behind the stage as well, Salacia's other minions (the Senator, the possessed General Crozier, and Ravenwood's reanimated corpse) flocked silently. The Senator and Ravenwood both had Gibson guitars, strange and twisted enchanted copies of Toki's and Skwisgaar's. Something inhuman was afoot. 

"Care to take me up on my offer, Explosion?" Salacia said. 

The rest of the band watched Nathan. He was battling himself. 

He knew he was supposed to give up and surrender to Salacia, that the unholy demon of a man would undo himself without the band needing to try. But Nathan didn't want to give up. There was something proud and stubborn inside him that was stopping his throat. He gritted his teeth and the Dethlights in his eyes began to gleam. Salacia smirked and positioned his fingers on the bass that contained the Doomstar's destruction code, readying himself for the battle, when someone else spoke up. 

"No," said Murderface. All eyes flickered to him. In the dim and unflattering light, his appearance crossed over from unattractive to downright off-puttingly ugly. Sweat dripped down his face, streaking the corpsepaint. 

"What?" Salacia hissed. 

"We don't want to fight," Murderface said. 

The Dethlights in the rest of the band's eyes darkened as they remembered that they had to save the world. 

"Yeah, ams stupid," Toki squeaked. He'd been seeing red in a way that scared him. He was still teetering on the edge of beserker mode; this man was evil and he knew it, and he'd been under so much goddamn stress lately, but he forced himself to keep his emotions at bay. 

Salacia's eyes narrowed. "Really?..."

"We amen'st gods," Skwisgaar said, crossing his arms over the Explorer. "Just peoples."

"I'm not some kind of fuckin' hero," Pickles said. "I'm just here 'cos I get paid."

"...They're right," Nathan said through gritted teeth. 

Salacia began to cackle. "Very well, then." The audience were quiet with shock, aghast at the cowardice of their heroes. 

The band looked at each other, feeling doubtful. Apparently they weren't the only ones. Orlaag piped up, "Sir, doesn't this seem rather suspicious to you—"

"Shut up and play!" Salacia said. 

So they did. 

The Tribunal's anti-Dethklok band started playing something that sounded familiar, which it was, since they were playing a Dethklok song backwards, the same song they'd been playing at the beginning of the show. Blazing Star. Nathan wondered momentarily how they'd found that song out; he'd only finished the lyrics this morning. But this was quickly forgotten as the bassline began and the destruct code for the Doomstar's was activated by the Starset Amulet. 

The crimson sky began to boil, poisonous and unrepentant. Unconsciously, Dethklok left their instruments and huddled into a group. Lightning split the sky (or maybe it was the guitars); hollow thunder followed a moment later (which could have been the rhythm section). Eldritch shadows swirled in the night around Salacia and his minions. Some people in the crowd screamed and began running for cover. 

Something in the thick, greasy air changed; a cold wind began to blow. The pus-colored light that had streamed from Salacia's eyes began to dim. He looked down at his hands and dropped the instrument, then began screaming, strange and hoarse screaming like a rift being torn between dimensions. The bass guitar lay at his feet, but it was already doing its damage as the Doomstar went supernova. The sky was ripped to pieces with a million shrieking kaleidoscope colors, then silenced with the black shadow of night. The Doomstar was gone. 

Salacia seemed to be much closer to a regular human size now than he had before, although nothing visible had changed. "My plan!" he screeched. "What happened to the plan! Millions of years!..." Black blood streamed from his mouth and a strange red glimmer appeared in the air behind him. 

"This was never your plan," Nathan was somehow compelled to say. 

With a final howl, Salacia disappeared, pulled back into his own alien dimension. The Earth was safe, at least for now. 

The band stared at where Salacia had been, then at the sky. Stampingston and Orlaag looked awkwardly at each other before they both ran opposite ways into the night, frightened of the horde of metalheads and the Klokateer bouncers. Ravenwood's spirit exited his body one final time, and he crumbled to the ground, dust to dust. It seemed he'd been useless after all. Crozier, who had been standing attentively backstage, slumped, clutched at his chest, and fell unconscious. 

"We did it," Pickles said. "We saved the world by doing nothing."

"That was anticlimaxtics," Skwisgaar grumbled. 

"Wanna gets a drink?" Toki asked. 

"Guysh, shomething'sh happening to Nathan..." Murderface said. 

Nathan swayed back and forth a bit. His eyes glazed over. Something that looked like a black cloud forced itself out of his mouth, then swum away into the dark air unnoticed. The something was in the vague shape of a mermaid. 

He, too, slumped to the ground. But he moved slightly, as if he were asleep rather than dead. The rest of the band gathered around him. 

Toki's cellphone rang. It was Charles Foster Ofdensen. He answered it. "Hellos?"

"You did it," Charles said. He was on speakerphone, and his voice rang loudly on the deserted stage. "I...I'm proud of you, boys."

And it began to rain.


	28. The Raveled Sleeve of Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue of sorts.

Nathan woke up in the Mordhaus hospital. He lay in bed for a while, savoring the last dregs of what had been undisturbed unconsciousness. He wasn't used to that. 

He opened his eyes, vision blurring, then clearing up. It looked like midmorning in the hospital; he must've slept all night after the catastrophic show. Some machine beeped in the background. 

"Uh, what's going on?" he murmured. 

Someone stuck their head in from around the door. Nathan caught a glimpse of bushy hair shaped like a perfect trapezoid before he heard Murderface say, "Guysh, he'sh finally awake!"

The band rushed in and gathered around Nathan, asking him how he was and congratulating him on not dying. He was pretty overwhelmed by all this. 

A doctor checked in on him, too. He leaned casually against the wall. "Feel any different?" he said. 

"Uh, I feel more awake," Nathan said. 

The doctor rolled his eyes. "No, apart from that...well, I'll just tell you. Apparently there was some kind of parasitic demon living inside you and planting thoughts in your mind. I dunno, we had some supernatural expert in to check it out."

Nathan leaned back against the pillow. "So...?"

"You're gonna be okay, or as okay as you can be in this economy," said the doctor. 

"Thanks."

"Whatever." The doctor departed. 

"Is the world still saved and everything?" Nathan asked. 

"Yeah," Pickles said. "Don't worry about it, man. Everything's looking pretty good, right? Apart from the fact that we don't have Dethlights any more."

(It took some considerable adjusting to get used to living without Dethlights. There was no more zapping bread instantaneously into toast or picking up the remote control from across the room without getting up, but they managed.)

"Murderface..." Nathan said. 

"Uh, what?" said the bassist. 

Nathan rubbed his eyes. "You...you saved my life. Again. I was going to do something really stupid before you rushed in like that and stopped me."

"Oh, uh, don't mentshion it." The bassist grinned smugly. 

~~~

Back in Mordhaus, in his room, Nathan was on his phone still. He was looking through all the pictures of him and Abigail on his Dethphone. He noticed how the earlier pictures showed her looking at him with some strange doubt, which faded as the pictures progressed on. In the most recent ones, they looked completely comfortable together. 

She came into his room; he'd called her down. "What's going on?" she asked. 

"I've been thinking about this a lot," he said. "I've made an important decision, though. And I'm kinda nervous, but..." He went down on one knee before her, and stared up into her beautiful ocean-colored eyes. "Abigail," he said, as if in a dream, "will you...do a song on my new album?"

She bit her lip. "Oh, Nathan..."

"You have a beautiful voice," he said longingly. He rose to his feet and tried to pull her into a hug, but she resisted. "Abigail, what's wrong?"

"I can't sing on your album," she said. "Nathan, I'm not even supposed to be dating you. I shouldn't date coworkers. I can't do this."

"Please," he said. "No, don't leave! God, I don't know why I asked—"

"I love you," she said, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest. "But I don't think I can do this. I don't belong with you."

"Yes you do," he said. He thought he'd go mad. "Abigail, I want to be with you forever. I can't imagine being without you...Why do you have to be like this?" He collapsed onto the bed. 

"I'm sorry!" she yelled. "I don't know! I don't want it to be like this, but I'm not part of your band!"

"No, you're so much more!" He reached for her hand. She didn't move, but there were tears in those beautiful eyes. "You mean so much more to me. You're different from anyone else I've ever met. I don't even know what to say when I see you half the time. You're...breathtaking."

"Nate..."

"It's okay," he said. 

"Nathan, you can't just ask me something like this," she said quietly. "I know you're trying to make me feel included. I know I'm not. You can't just fix me like that, I'm never going to be like you."

"I'm sorry," he rambled on, frowning. "I guess I just...you're important to me, and I need you to be some part of this...if it weren't for you, Toki would never have lived through all that, and I just need you—"

He was silenced by her lips meeting his. He lost his train of thought, breathing in her smell, like tea and shampoo and her beautiful skin. He decided he never wanted to be anywhere else. 

"What you want is more important," he said, as she leaned her forehead against his chest and he played with her hair. 

"Fine," she said with a sigh. "I'll do it. One song—"

Now she was cut off by a kiss. This time, Nathan didn't let go until he managed somehow to pour every ounce of his soul out with this unfamiliar form of nonverbal communication. 

"I love you," he whispered. 

~~~

Since the Doomstar had been destroyed, it seemed Dethklok's glamor had faded. Girls didn't pass out at the very sight of them. They didn't have their own controlled economy any longer. It seemed like the public had moved on. 

This wasn't entirely a bad thing. Now they had more time to themselves. They missed having the attractive powers of pagan gods, but their new mundane life was interesting and time-consuming too. For example, Nathan and Toki were currently doing nearly nothing in the living room together. Toki was trying to force Nathan to watch some sappy kid's movie. 

"You ams not paying attentions!" Toki said. "Come ons! Princess Fluffbunny ams almost at the Jellybean Forest and you ams going to misses the best part!"

"Toki," Nathan sighed, "I don't like this movie. It's dumb and girly and I don't like it."

"Fucks you, Nathans," Toki whispered. 

"Dildo-say-what," Nathan said very quickly. 

"What?"

"Nothing," Nathan said with a huge easy smile. Then he became a tad more serious. "Toki, look, I don't get you. You've gone through all this shit, but you're still like...pretty childish and innocent."

"Ams not childish!" Toki said with a pout. 

"But on the inside you're, like, crazy," Nathan said. "Like some kind of brutal Viking. Like the way you almost killed that guy at the Snakes n' Barrels show, and stuff. I don't get it."

Toki sighed. "I don't likes showing that parts of my personsalisky to people, okay? It's weird. It's not who I ams."

"It partly is," Nathan said. "I mean, you should figure out some way to, y'know, incorporate the two together. You're strange. It's pretty great, okay? You're like the bastard child of Rambo and Hello Kitty."

"I guess." Toki smiled. "Maybe somesday, Nathans."

"Hello."

The two musicians jumped and looked around. Charles Ofdensen had somehow gotten into Mordhaus without anyone noticing. He tossed his jacket on the back of the couch and ran a hand through his hair. 

"Hey, what's going on?" Nathan said. 

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Charles said. "Now, I've already asked Abigail Remeltindrinc about this, and this seems like the best decision from every angle I can see, so—"

"What is it?" Nathan said. 

"Well," Charles said, "since the Prophecy was made null and void, the Church has no purpose any more, and it has disbanded. This combined with the fact that you've all proven yourself to be capable of making the right decision has influenced me to, well, step back into my previous position as manager of Dethklok, if that's alright with you. I'll be renovating the Church into an apartment for myself, and—"

Charles had the wind knocked out of him by a flying Toki glomping him. The rhythm guitarist was crying tears of joy as he held Charles as close as possible. Charles was flustered by this, and patted Toki on the back stiffly. 

"I been missings you!" Toki said. "You ams gonna be a great managers for us again! Do all the legals paperswork, with the fancy briefcases and everything...no more fuckings cults. You're safe. You can starts a family now."

"You're my family." Charles almost sounded choked up. He finally melted into Toki's embrace. "It's good to be back."

They were both squished by Nathan bear-hugging them both. Charles actually let out a little giggle, which sounded ridiculous coming from him, but everything was changing. 

"Fuck!" Nathan said. "We missed you, you dick!"

"Ams you drunks, Nathans?" Toki asked. 

"No! Well, maybe just a bit."

"Me too," said the ex-ex-CFO, who had needed some help steadying his nerves. 

"Me toos," Toki said. 

"Well, let's get even more drunk," Charles said. "Let's have a party! I'm back, bitches! We can buy some, uh, marijuana, and inject it all..."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here," Nathan said. They broke the hug off and stared at each other, grinning because this was nearly too good to be true. 

Just then, someone else barged in. It was Skwisgaar, with a lady as usual. Only today something seemed different. 

"Hey, guys," Skwisgaar said. "Uh...so I haves an importants acknouncement to makes. This ams Alice." Alice waved. "And I ams getting engageds to her...she ams the loves of my life, and I don't wants any other womans but her."

"Oh, Skwisgaar, I love you too," said the mousy-haired, conservatively dressed Alice. 

Nathan, Toki, and Charles looked at each other. 

"Uh, good for you," Nathan said doubtfully at last. Things sure were looking improbably strange.

~~~

Not everything was looking mundane and pleasant, however. One dark and gloomy evening, Charles, Abigail, Nathan, Pickles, Murderface, Toki, and Skwisgaar were gathered on the ground floor of the previous Church of the Black Klok. The glassy pathways over the deep water glimmered darkly, and so did the quartz streaking the inside walls of the volcano. It was strangely quiet, even for the Church. This was because the great Klok in its bowels had ceased to run. There was a small and unassuming door set into the wall, and they waited here. 

Magnus Hammersmith was led up the stairs by Klokateers, out into the huge room with the others. He stood alone in the corner, not making eye contact with anyone. 

"Is this what you really want?" Charles asked. 

"Yes," Magnus said. His voice was hoarse. "Please."

Charles gestured at the water beside him. There was a raft floating in it, piled with kindling. Magnus gingerly stepped onto the raft and lay down, closed his eyes. 

Death was the only thing that could bring him peace, and now there was nothing keeping him from it, so he almost felt happy as he stared into the great cavernous ceiling. 

"Mew!" Zarathustra the cat had found them. It curled around Toki's ankles, and watched Magnus inquisitively, not understanding what was happening. Toki picked the cat up and cuddled it. He was sobbing, oddly enough. Abigail drew him into a hug, and he tried to steady himself. 

Charles pulled something out of his pocket; a simple screwdriver. Magnus watched him, silent and remote. 

"Would one of you care to do the honors?"

Unusually, the members of Dethklok were silent. Toki said, "You cans."

Charles knelt beside the raft in the dark water and touched the artificial metal heart that beat in Magnus' chest. Magnus winced as Charles began on the external screws holding the round glass and metal protective plate onto the heart. 

"Don't be like me," Magnus said to the band. "Be brave."

Toki broke free of Abigail. "You was brave."

Magnus shook his head. "I know you'll be good." He sighed as he felt Charles lift the shield off, and then he went very still as Charles gently pulled out a single gear. The last part of the Klok ceased to move, and all was silent but the rippling of the water around them. Charles struck a match and lit the raft, then pushed it off. It seemed to float into the distance forever. None of them quite knew how big the Church was, and it looked infinite right now. Toki dried his tears and looked down at the cat in his arms. 

"I wish things could've gone different," Pickles muttered. 

Charles didn't quite understand, but he decided not to ask. Once upon a time they had all been happy together, but the times had changed, and they were worn down slowly, like water wears down stone until it's barely recognizable. 

"It'sh for the besht," Murderface said. 

Nathan nodded. 

~~~

Far across town, in yet another hospital, Mordred Hammersmith and Seth an Drumadoír stood by General Crozier's bedside. 

The General hadn't exactly been an exemplary man. No one was sure who he really was; he didn't know himself. It was hard to tell when you'd been hypnotized by someone else for so long. Now he was really just an empty shell of a man, but things couldn't be any other way. 

"I am sorry," he said at last. 

"It's alright," Mordred said. 

"Why'd you call us?" said Seth. 

"I don't have anyone else to call." He cleared his throat. "I...I suppose I'm dying. I wanted to see you, and I wanted to apologize." He was pale and looked two hundred years old. 

Mordred and Seth didn't know what to say. 

"It's okay," Crozier said. "I want to admit that I made mistakes. I was a stubborn fool."

"It's okay," Mordred said, his voice quavering. He'd seen too many people die. He never quite got used to it. 

"Yes, it is," Crozier said. He coughed, and drew a breath. "I just want to tell you...learn to forgive. Learn to forgive, so you don't end up like me."

"You're, uh, you're part of my family," Mordred said. Seth nodded.

"Thank you," Crozier said. "You did the right thing..."

And just like that he was gone, eyes glazed over, chest rising and falling no longer. Mordred let out an audible little weeping sound. Seth wrapped his arms around the taller man, which was almost a natural motion by now. 

~~~

Vater Orlaag moved to a small remote cabin in Northern Canada. Senator Stampingston went back into politics, where he was so bland that no one ever knew who he was, and he was quite successful, for a given definition of the word.

~~~

It was time to go back to Australia, but Seth had one final stop to make before he got to the airport. He fidgeted awkwardly in the restaurant where he'd agreed to meet his brother. 

Soon, Pickles came in as well and sat down in the booth opposite him, across the table. He didn't look up, just scowled down at his black sneakers. "How much do you want this time?" he said. 

"I wanted to ask you somethin' else, actually," Seth said awkwardly. 

"Uh...what?" Pickles said. His bright green eyes met Seth's duller ones. 

"Well..." Seth sighed. "My kid, I think she's gonna be a real good drummer when she grows up. She's already banging on pots and pans and stuff all day, she's got like a sense of rhythm. So I was wondering if you knew the numbers of any good, uh, drumming teachers or whatever in Australia."

"Uh...sure," Pickles said, slightly stunned. He scrawled out a number on a soggy napkin and handed it to Seth. 

"Thanks, bro," Seth said. He left to pay his bill. Pickles shook his head as he watched him. 

When Seth was waiting in the airport with his suitcase and his guitar, he got another surprise. It was Mordred, with a suitcase and a guitar of his own. 

"I bought a one-way ticket to Australia," he explained. "I'm coming with you. I couldn't leave you there all alone."

Seth half-grinned. "Thanks, man. It's good to see you again." They fist-bumped. "So, been writing any songs lately?"

"Oh, a few..."

~~~

It was funny how easy they fell back into the regular swing of things. Today they were recording some guitar and bass tracks for the Doomstar Requiem; right now, though, they were taking a break. The band and Abigail were down in some random bar somewhere, having a drink to aid the creative process. It was weird not being constantly mobbed by rabid fans, but it was a kind of weird they could get used to. 

"My nightmares haven't been as bad lately," Abigail was saying to Nathan. "Now that I know Magnus is really dead."

"Me neither," Nathan said. "I guess that spirit thing in my brain was really fucking me up. It's nice to sleep again."

"Hey, I'll fuckin' drink to that," Murderface said, raising his glass 

Someone approached their table. It was a rather unassuming geeky-looking bald man with an Arch Enemy T-shirt. "Dethklok?" he said. 

"That ams us," Toki said. 

"I'm a huge fan," said the man. 

"You're welcomes," Skwisgaar said. 

"I'm Brendon Small," said the man. "I have a proposition to make. See, I work for a TV company called Adult Swim. We're looking for a new show, and we think you might just be the stars we're looking for."

"A TV show about us?" Pickles said.

"Who'd wanna watch that?" Murderface said. 

"You'd be surprised," Brendon said with a smile. "It could sell. It would be kind of a documentary series."

"Would we be, like, movies stars?" Skwisgaar said. 

"I don't wanna wear all that gay TV makeup," Murderface slurred. "That'sh weird. You're not getting any eyeliner on me."

"Maybe it could be a cartoon," Brendon said, shrugging. "It could be called Metalocalypse, like the apocalypse, and you're metal,"

"That ams pretty goods," Toki said thoughtfully. 

"What do you say?" Brendon said. All eyes turned to Nathan, as usual. Nathan pondered this. 

"Well," said the singer, "we'll have to speak to our manager."

~~~

Miles below the water, a freshly exorcised water spirit swam past something that looked like a corpse. It found the artificial heart, and curiously stirred the separate pieces of it, gears and chains, on a drift. Something deep inside the earth sounded like the deep and sorrowful ticking of an eternal clock as Fate turned a blind eye and moved on.


End file.
